I scrolled through the messages, feeling lighter. For months, I had walked on eggshells trying to be the modern, evolved partner she wanted, suppressing my gut instincts to avoid being labeled toxic. Now, I was the villain in her story, and God, it felt good.
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9:00 p.m. — Maya: Fine. Ignore me. But you owe me for the hotel and the spa. You promised me this weekend.
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9:15 p.m. — Me: I promised my girlfriend a birthday weekend. But she checked out on Tuesday to be single with her work husband. I just finalized the paperwork. Enjoy the platonic silence. It's soothing, isn't it?
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9:16 p.m. — Maya: I hate you.
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9:20 p.m. — Me: You're right.
I blocked her number. Then I blocked Sarah. Then I blocked Jen and Chloe. Then I opened the food delivery app and ordered a pizza from the place she always said was too greasy. I slept like a baby.
The next morning, I woke up to a notification from Instagram. I hadn't blocked her there yet. She had posted a story at 2:00 a.m.—a black screen with small white text: The betrayal you never see coming hurts the most. #heartbroken #narcissist.
I laughed out loud. She was already spinning the narrative: she was the victim, I was the monster who ruined her birthday for no reason.
But I knew something she didn't. I knew about the karma that was about to hit her on Monday morning. Because while she was crying on the sidewalk outside The Vain, I had sent one final email. Not to her—to Gavin's wife.
I didn't just leave Maya. I removed the structural integrity of her life.
Monday morning arrived. While I was settling into a temporary workspace at a WeWork, sipping a coffee I actually enjoyed, Maya was walking into the office expecting sympathy. She probably thought she could lean on Gavin, cry about her psychotic ex-boyfriend, and get another one of those platonic cuddling sessions.
She didn't know I had sent the email on Saturday night. I had found Gavin's wife, Jessica, on Facebook easily enough. My message to her was short, factual, and devoid of emotion:
Subject: Tuesday afternoon.