He would come to my place, and we would take long walks, talking and laughing like we didn’t have a care in the world. Sometimes, he’d carry me on his back, and we’d laugh and gossip about everyone in the neighborhood. We had the craziest inside jokes. When we weren’t together, we were on the phone, talking for hours as if there was never enough time in the day.

We went to the market together, picking out ingredients, and cooked together. He even learned to make different meals from me. We were peas in a pod—inseparable. He was my best friend. But we were too close for a male and female to just be “friends.” Naturally, everyone around us started assuming we were together, but we weren’t.

One afternoon, as we sat in my house talking about something I can’t even remember now, I told him, casually, “I’m a virgin.”

He giggled. “Me too.”

It was my turn to laugh.

“Do you ever think about doing it?” he asked.

“Yes, but only with my future husband,” I replied.

“Do you think you can wait that long?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

I don’t know when the mood shifted, but it did. Things got… intense. We started kissing. Not just little kisses—passionate ones. It wasn’t my first kiss, but this? This was different.

That one kiss changed everything.

Suddenly, we weren’t just friends anymore. We started kissing more. Then came the fondling and the caressing. We didn’t do the deed, but we did enough. Too much.

It got to a point where it wasn’t enough for him anymore. He wanted more. He wanted everything.

But I wanted something else—I wanted a label. I wanted to be more than his secret. I wanted to be his person. I started dropping hints, hoping he’d take the cue. But he didn’t. He ignored them, pretending not to know what I wanted.

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So, I pretended too. I pretended I didn’t know he wanted my body.

While we were stuck in this emotional tug-of-war, we kept acting like everything was normal. Like we were still just friends. But we weren’t. We were both getting affected, both walking on the edge of something fragile and unspoken.

One day, he called me.

“Audrey, I have sweet news for you!” His excitement was contagious.

“What is it?” I asked, eager to hear what he had to say.

“It’s a surprise,” he teased.

I couldn’t wait for this surprise. My mind raced with possibilities. Maybe—just maybe—he was finally going to ask me to be his. Maybe he’d planned something romantic, maybe even gifts to go with it.

But no. That wasn’t what happened.

Instead, he introduced me to his new girlfriend.

“When did you even meet this one?” I asked, my voice trembling. “We’re always together!”

“Oh, come on. Rose has always been my friend,” he said like it was nothing.

“And what about me?” I asked, my heart breaking. “What have I been to you?”

He sighed, looking almost annoyed. “Stop acting like you don’t know how dear you are to me. We just can’t date, but I cherish our friendship.”

I was furious. Friendship? I turned down proposals for him. I broke hearts for him. I stayed loyal. I was waiting for his heart—waiting for the moment he’d realize I was the one.

Why would he do this to me? Why?

I’m hurt. Devastated.

I hate him with everything in me. How am I good enough to kiss and fondle, but not good enough to date?

I’ve wished on shooting stars and prayed to God that this girl breaks his heart into a thousand pieces. I heard he wants to marry her. If you’re reading this, may that marriage bring you nothing but misery, because she's not me.

I don’t wish you well. I don’t want you to be happy if it’s not with me.

Call me selfish if you want, but you deserve all my hate.