Funny thing about karma—it doesn’t miss.

When he starts sneaking off to pick up calls, that’s your first sign. Don’t ignore it, don’t rationalize it. No, it’s not a business call—because who, I ask, who orders shoes at midnight? Yes, run. And in fact, run very fast if you can. But of course, I didn’t. I stayed. Because love does that to you. It makes you doubt your instincts and trust what you want to believe instead of what’s painfully obvious.

Derek had been my friend for the longest time. Back in campus, we had something beautiful. Not a romance, no. Just a deep, genuine friendship—the kind that felt safe, like a cozy hoodie on a rainy day. Back then, men felt less conniving, and situationships weren’t the plague they are now. Things were simpler. We could hang out, share fries, laugh about stupid assignments, and go home without wondering what we were to each other.

Then came life after campus. We were both in the same town, trying to figure out adulthood and how to keep our heads above water. It started slow, the idea of being something more. We were comfortable with each other. We knew each other well. It made sense. Why not take the friendship a notch higher and turn it into a full-blown relationship? And so we did.

At first, it was bliss. We were the couple everyone envied—matchy outfits, Instagram reels, random dinner dates, nights out dancing, sleepy mornings tangled in sheets. He called me “his peace,” and I believed him. It was the kind of love that made you feel seen, heard, and held. But good things, especially those you hold too tightly, sometimes slip through your fingers.

Then came her—Mercy.

I remember the first time I heard her name. He had left his phone charging in the kitchen and it rang. Mercy. The name glowed on the screen like a neon warning sign. I let it slide the first time. The second time, I asked, casually. “Who’s Mercy?”
“Oh, she stays near the shop. Just a client. She’s always pestering me about shoes,” he said with a chuckle.

But then, he started sneaking off to pick her calls. At first, it was during the day. Then it was in the evenings. Then the 11 PM calls started. Then midnight. Then 2 AM. I’d wake up and his side of the bed would be empty. I’d find him outside “getting fresh air,” phone glued to his ear, voice low, eyes guilty.

I started shrinking. I could feel her presence even when she wasn’t there. He started forgetting our plans—dates, events, even my birthday once. He was always “caught up.” Always “at the shop,” which suddenly started needing his attention round the clock. Later I found out she lived just a few meters from there.

Mercy was young—barely 19. Bright-eyed, bubbly, bold. I saw her once. She looked like everything I used to be before Derek started draining the color out of me. I guess she made him feel young again. Alive. Like a king. And he began to change.

Derek, the man who used to hold my hand like it was his lifeline, stopped texting me good morning. He no longer looked at me like I was magic. He stopped asking about my day, stopped remembering my favorite things. He began talking to me like I was just… there. Like I was furniture.

I struggled. God, did I struggle.

I called him crying more times than I can count. At one point, I crushed my phone against the wall in frustration. I changed my number, thinking maybe that would help me heal. But it didn’t. I found myself memorizing his number even when I didn’t want to. I’d unblock him at 1 AM just to see if he was online, wondering if he was with her. I deleted photos, then cried myself to sleep when they were gone. I wanted to hate him. But heartbreak doesn’t always come with hate—it comes with longing, confusion, and shame.

Then, as fate would have it, we tried to make things work again. He said he missed me. That he wanted us back. That Mercy was “just a distraction.” I took him back, hopeful, stupidly hopeful. I visited him one weekend, heart pounding, hoping maybe this was a new chapter.

That’s when I found them—condoms. Not just the box. Open ones. Some used, carelessly shoved into the bin like secrets too tired to hide. It was like a slap. My heart didn’t just break—it crumbled.

I walked out that day and never looked back. It took months to stop crying. It took therapy. Friends. Solo dates. Journals filled with rage and grief. But I healed. Slowly. I peeled off the layers of pain until I could breathe again.

Funny thing about karma—it doesn’t miss.

Derek got another girl pregnant. Not Mercy. Another one. A girl he barely knew, barely loved. And just like that, his freedom was gone. He had to marry her, even though he wasn’t ready. Even though his eyes looked like prisons when I saw him last. I heard from a friend that he sometimes talks about me—says I was the one who got away.

But I didn’t get away. I saved myself. And now I’m building a life where my love is not questioned, not shared, not reduced. A life where midnight calls are for dreams, not doubts.

And Mercy? She disappeared. I think even she realized eventually—men like Derek only look for homes in people when they’ve forgotten how to build one for themselves.