Two nights ago, she had posted: [Oh my god, making out with my boyfriend in the car and got caught by the police. So embarrassing and we even got fined!]
A few days before that: [That jerk still clings to me like before, wouldn't let me go all night. My legs are so sore and now I have to nap all day.]
The words blurred as tears spilled onto the screen, but no amount of crying could erase Anya's smug smile in her profile picture—a perfectly posed snapshot of triumph.
But these posts were only the surface. My call log revealed more of her relentless pursuit. Over thirty missed calls from Anya in recent weeks. She always seemed to find new ways to remind me of my place, painting me as the interloper who had stolen Tristan from her. In her mind, now that she was back, it was only right for me to return him.
It seemed I would be stepping aside soon enough.
To drown out the intimate sounds from the other side of the wall, I pulled the blanket over my head, cocooning myself in the oppressive heat of my despair. Yet even then, sleep eluded me until dawn broke.