A week after I left, my phone buzzed. It was Chloe, who'd been more Sarah's friend, but was decent enough.
Chloe: Hey, James. I don't want to be in the middle, but Sarah is not doing well. She's telling everyone you had a paranoid breakdown, that you're making up the cheating because you couldn't handle her personal growth. She says you trapped her with a recording. People are listening.
I stared at the message. The narrative she was weaving was impressive: the empowered woman stalked and sabotaged by her insecure, controlling husband. I typed out a long, defensive reply. Then I deleted it. I wrote a new one:
Me: Thanks, Chloe. I have a sworn affidavit and a digital recording of her specific, detailed confession. I won't be debating the facts publicly or privately. I hope you're well.
The typing bubbles appeared, then disappeared. They reappeared:
Chloe: An affidavit. Shit. Okay, that's... I won't bother you again. Take care.
She never relayed another message. The first flying monkey had landed, seen the evidence, and flown away.
Channel two: The digital graveyard.
Curiosity—that vile itch got me once. I reinstalled Instagram on a burner account I used for market research. Sarah's profile was public. Her feed was a museum of her crumbling narrative.
The week I left: a defiant selfie. Caption: "When you finally choose yourself. The vibes are immaculate ✨" It was at Mark's messy apartment, a red Solo cup on the counter behind her.
Two weeks later: a quote graphic. "Not everyone deserves your truth."
Three weeks in: a blurry photo of a wine glass. "Learning who your real friends are is the universe's toughest gift." The likes were dwindling.
Then a month after D-Day, a new post: a photo of her hand, no wedding ring, resting on a legal-looking document. Caption: "Fighting for my truth. #resilience"