“It just happened,” he said. “We didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

High school was a whirlwind of friendships, secrets, and laughter, and in the middle of it all was Cynthia. She wasn’t just a friend; she was the friend. Her confidence drew people in, her laughter infectious. I was quieter, the one who preferred to observe from the sidelines. Despite our differences, we became inseparable.

At St. Mary’s Girls, we shared everything—dreams of the future, teenage crushes, and whispered secrets under the dim lights of our dorm room. Cynthia always said, “Friends forever, through thick and thin.” And I believed her.

After high school, life pulled us in different directions. I stayed in Nairobi for university, pursuing a degree in communication, while Cynthia went to Eldoret to study business. Distance didn’t dull our friendship. We exchanged texts daily, visited each other on weekends, and kept each other updated on every detail of our lives.

In my first year at campus, I met Joakim. He had that boy-next-door charm that made everyone gravitate toward him. He was funny, kind, and ambitious. By the second semester, we were inseparable. He became my rock, my partner, and eventually, the love of my life. I told Cynthia everything about him. She teased me endlessly, calling him “Mr. Perfect” and joking about how he was every girl’s dream guy.

It wasn’t until my third year that Cynthia met Joakim. She was in Nairobi for the weekend, and I invited her to a small party my campus friends were hosting. Joakim was there, and I was excited to introduce him to my best friend.

When their eyes met, I felt a strange pang I couldn’t quite name. It was fleeting, gone before I could dwell on it. Cynthia was her usual charming self, and Joakim, ever the gentleman, made her feel welcome. The night went on, and they got along well—too well, perhaps. But I brushed it off. They were just being friendly.

In the weeks that followed, Cynthia began to drift. Our texts became shorter, her responses delayed. At first, I thought she was busy with exams, but a nagging feeling in my chest wouldn’t go away. Joakim, too, started acting distant. He canceled dates with vague excuses and seemed distracted when we were together.

It wasn’t until I accidentally saw a message on his phone that everything came crashing down. A simple “I miss you” from Cynthia. My blood ran cold. When I confronted him, he hesitated, then admitted they’d been talking—a lot. “It just happened,” he said. “We didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

I felt like the ground had been ripped from beneath me. The betrayal wasn’t just from Joakim—it was from Cynthia, my best friend, my sister. I called her, my voice trembling with anger and hurt. She didn’t deny it. “I never planned this,” she said, her voice soft but unrepentant. “But I think I love him.”

They didn’t even try to hide their relationship after that. I saw photos of them together on social media, their smiles bright, as if nothing had happened. My heartbreak turned into obsession. I created fake accounts to spy on them, scrolled through their profiles late into the night, dissecting every post, every caption.

I became consumed by anger and despair. My grades slipped, my friendships frayed. My life revolved around their relationship, and I hated myself for it. Nights were the worst. I’d lie awake, replaying every moment, every red flag I’d ignored.

Depression hit me like a tidal wave. For months, I barely left my apartment. My family noticed the change, but I pushed them away. It wasn’t until a concerned professor recommended a counseling group that I began to pull myself out of the darkness.

The sessions were hard at first. I didn’t want to talk about the betrayal, didn’t want to admit how deeply it had broken me. But slowly, the pieces of myself I thought were lost began to reappear. I learned to let go of the anger, to stop comparing myself to Cynthia.

Months turned into a year, and one day, I realized I hadn’t checked their profiles in weeks. I didn’t care anymore. Healing was slow, but it was steady.

It was during this time that I met Daniel. He wasn’t flashy or overly charming like Joakim. He was steady, kind, and patient. He didn’t try to fix me; he simply walked beside me as I fixed myself. For the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe again.

Just as I was beginning to feel whole, a message appeared on my phone one evening. It was from Cynthia. “Hey, can we talk?”

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding. Part of me wanted to delete it, to pretend it never happened. But another part—a curious, vindictive part—wanted to know. What could she possibly have to say after all these years?

I didn’t respond immediately. Instead, I closed my laptop and stared out of the window at the Nairobi skyline. Joakim and Cynthia were my past, but the wounds they left still lingered. What would I do if Cynthia asked for forgiveness? And what if she didn’t?

The message sat unread, a silent reminder of a chapter I wasn’t sure I was ready to close. Did I want closure, or did I want to leave the past exactly where it was?

As the city buzzed outside, I made a decision—but only time would tell if it was the right one.