I remember the darkness so vividly, a suffocating blanket woven from anxiety and despair. It wasn’t just a bad time; it was an abyss. I spent my days staring at walls, my nights battling thoughts that felt too heavy to carry. Every breath was a conscious effort, every flicker of hope immediately extinguished by an overwhelming sense of pointlessness. I was truly lost, utterly broken. I’d cut everyone off, pushed away the few who tried to reach me. The world had gone silent, and I was drowning in that quiet.
Then, they appeared. Like a sudden, brilliant sunrise after an endless night. They didn’t preach or judge; they just were. They sat with me through the silence, they dragged me out for walks even when I resisted, they made me laugh again with their ridiculous stories, their unwavering optimism. They were my lifeline. I remember one afternoon, sitting on a park bench, tears streaming down my face, and they just held my hand, saying, “You’re still in there. I know it. And we’re going to find you.” It wasn’t just words; it was a promise. A promise they kept. They pulled me back from the brink, piecing me together, reminding me what it felt like to genuinely smile, to feel sunlight on my skin, to believe there was a future. My spirit, so shattered, began to mend, all thanks to them.
A young girl carrying plastic cups on a plastic tray | Source: Pexels
Life, as it often does, eventually pulled us in different directions. New jobs, new cities, new responsibilities. The calls became less frequent, the visits ceased altogether. It wasn’t a fight, just a slow, painful drift. But the gratitude, the love, the profound sense of debt I owed them, never faded. Not for a single day. I often thought about them, wondering if they knew the depth of their impact.
Years passed. More years than I care to admit. And then, out of the blue, a message. “I’m in town. Been thinking about you. Coffee?” My heart leapt. It was them. It was a chance. I was struggling again, not in the abyss this time, but certainly feeling the familiar weight of loneliness pressing down. Maybe this was fate.
The reunion was everything I’d hoped for and more. It was like no time had passed at all. Their laughter was still infectious, their eyes still held that same spark of life. We talked for hours, catching up on years of missed moments, the conversation flowing effortlessly. We spoke of our dreams, our failures, the mundane and the magnificent. I found myself confiding in them about my current struggles, the feeling of being stuck, the quiet desperation that had begun to creep back in. They listened, truly listened, offering advice and comfort with the same gentle wisdom I remembered. It felt like coming home. My spirit, once again, felt lighter, seen, understood. I walked away from that coffee shop feeling a warmth I hadn’t felt in years, a renewed sense of hope blooming in my chest. They still had that magic touch.
We started spending more and more time together. It was easy, natural. We explored the city, revisited old haunts, cooked meals, watched movies. It was pure joy. I found myself relying on them again, sharing every thought, every fear. They became my closest confidant, my anchor. I honestly believe they saved me a second time. I even dared to consider a future where they were a permanent fixture in my life. A future where I wouldn’t have to face the quiet struggles alone anymore.
A man placing a ring on a woman’s finger | Source: Pexels
One evening, we were looking through some old photos on my laptop, reminiscing about the old days. Laughing at our terrible fashion choices, the silly faces. We stumbled upon a folder from that dark period, the one where they had pulled me out. Pictures of me, looking so gaunt, so empty, slowly transforming into someone who could smile again. It was emotional. I thanked them again, my voice thick with emotion. “You have no idea,” I choked out, “what you did for me back then. You saved my life. Literally.”
They smiled, that same warm, reassuring smile. “Of course,” they said, their eyes crinkling. “Anyone would do the same.” Anyone? No. Only you.
As we scrolled further, a particular photo popped up – a group shot from a party, right before my world imploded. It was a blurry, drunken mess, but I could clearly see my face, and next to me, my then-partner. My ex. The breakup with them had been the catalyst for my descent into darkness. It had been brutal, unexpected, and utterly devastating. I’d never truly understood why it ended so abruptly, why they suddenly became so cold. I’d blamed myself for years.
“Oh, look at them,” my friend chuckled, a strange, almost bitter edge to their voice. “Remember how obsessed you were? Honestly, they were never good enough for you.”
Their words hung in the air, echoing. And then, something shifted inside me. A memory, long buried under layers of pain and self-blame, surfaced. A tiny, almost insignificant detail. I remembered my ex’s last message to me, after they had already walked out. It had been short, cryptic, and I’d dismissed it as their bitterness. But now, paired with my friend’s comment, it struck me like a bolt of lightning.
“You’ll find out who your real friends are soon enough,” my ex had written. “Just wait.”
Wait for what? I’d never understood. Until that very second. It wasn’t a warning about my friends. It was a warning about them.
A happy little family | Source: Pexels
My gaze snapped to my friend, who was still smiling, oblivious. And suddenly, my mind raced through every single detail of that time. Every ‘coincidence.’ Every piece of ‘advice’ my friend had given me about my relationship. The casual remarks, the planted seeds of doubt, the way they were always just there when my ex and I argued, or when I needed to vent. The way they seemed to know things they shouldn’t have.
NO. IT COULDN’T BE.
My hand started trembling. I leaned closer to the screen, zooming in on that old party photo. And there it was. In the very background, barely visible, half-obscured by someone else’s shoulder, was my friend. Their head was turned, their face slightly in profile, but unmistakable. And their hand was reaching into my ex’s bag, their fingers slipping something small inside. Something that, at the time, I would have sworn was just a phone.
But now, a chilling memory resurfaced. The day my ex left me, they had shouted, “You think I cheated? Check your bag! Check what your friend gave me!” I’d dismissed it as a desperate lie, a deflection. I’d never checked. I’d been too hurt.
My friend, seeing my sudden stillness, my wide eyes fixed on the screen, finally looked at me, their smile faltering. “What’s wrong?” they asked, their voice losing its easy warmth.
My stomach dropped. The air left my lungs. The “saving” wasn’t a selfless act. It was a clean-up. A calculated move. They hadn’t saved me from the darkness; they had pushed me into it. My ex hadn’t cheated. My ex hadn’t abandoned me without cause. My friend had. They had orchestrated my downfall, driven a wedge between me and the person I loved, just so they could be the hero. Just so they could be the one to “save” me.
My spirit wasn’t just broken again. It was OBLITERATED. The very person who I believed had pulled me from the deepest hell, had in fact, been the one to drag me there in the first place. Every moment of gratitude, every tear of relief, every rediscovered laugh, was now a poisoned memory. My savior. My undoing. They didn’t save my spirit; they enslaved it. And I had let them do it twice.
