I used to go over to their house all the time, even stay the night. They were three brothers, and they were all my friends. It was a boys’ affair, and we got along so well that it felt like I was part of their family. They lived with their mom in a sprawling house—big rooms, warm meals, and laughter echoing through the halls. Everything was perfect until their aunt came to visit.

At first, she seemed entirely normal. Just another adult who smiled politely and asked questions about school and life. She settled into the house seamlessly, and nothing seemed off. For days, we coexisted peacefully, and I thought nothing of it. Then, one night, everything changed.

It was late. The house was still, the kind of stillness where every sound feels magnified. I was half-asleep when I heard shouting. At first, I thought it was a dream until the noise got closer. Suddenly, the door burst open, and there she was—their aunt—holding a knife. Her eyes were wild, her voice unrecognizable as she screamed at me.

“Get out! You think you can stay here and take over? I won’t let you!” she shrieked, her grip on the knife tightening.

I froze, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure everyone in the house could hear it. I was terrified. No one had warned me that she wasn’t mentally stable. No one said a word about the storm that simmered beneath her calm exterior. Eventually, the brothers and their mom intervened, calming her down and taking the knife away.

But I couldn’t calm down. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop replaying the scene in my head. I felt like I was in a house built on quicksand, and at any moment, it could all collapse.

For some reason, though, I stayed.

The next time she had an episode, it was different. This time, there was no knife, but there was something even more unsettling: raw pain. She ranted and raved about betrayal, about how she had taken care of a man who had disappointed her. Her voice cracked under the weight of her words, and tears streamed down her face.

I couldn’t look away. For the first time, I didn’t feel scared. I felt sorry for her. I wanted to understand what had happened to break her so badly.

As I dug deeper, the truth came out. She wasn’t just some troubled woman; she had a story, and it was heartbreaking. She had been a successful businesswoman, running a thriving company and amassing wealth. Along the way, she fell in love with a man—a man who had nothing to his name but potential. She saw his struggles, believed in him, and poured her resources into him. She paid his tuition, supported him through school, and stood by him as he climbed the ladder of success.

And then, when he finally made it, he married someone else.

The betrayal shattered her. It wasn’t just her heart that broke; it was her mind, her sense of self, her trust in the world.

I couldn’t stop thinking about her story. The more I thought about it, the more I saw how often this pattern played out. People—men and women alike—investing their time, money, and love into someone, only to be discarded when the other person finally stood on solid ground. It seemed almost inevitable, like a cruel twist of fate that repeated itself over and over.

It made me question everything. What should we do to stop this from happening? Should we stop investing so heavily in the people we’re dating? Should we hold back, protecting ourselves at the expense of connection?

But that felt wrong. Isn’t love supposed to be selfless? Shouldn’t we help the people we care about without expecting anything in return?

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Or maybe the answer is to let people struggle on their own. Let them build their success without our help so that when they leave, we don’t feel like we’ve lost something.

The truth is, there’s no right answer. Love is a gamble, and betrayal is always a possibility. What I’ve learned is this: when you fall in love, leave room for heartbreak. Don’t give so much of yourself that losing them would mean losing yourself.

Because heartbreak will come. It’s inevitable. But when it comes, make sure you don't lose your mind in the process.