I’ve never told anyone this. Not a single soul. It’s a secret that sits in the deepest part of my gut, a heavy, pulsating ache that sometimes feels like it might burst through my ribs. It started with a party, or rather, with missing a party.
It was the party of the year, everyone said. My best friend’s engagement celebration. A huge, elaborate affair, months in the making. They were so excited, so in love. Or at least, that’s what everyone saw. That’s what I tried to see.
My heart ached for weeks leading up to it. Not with joy, but with a familiar, searing jealousy that I was ashamed to even acknowledge to myself. Because I loved them. Not my best friend, not in that way. But I was deeply, hopelessly in love with their partner.
A child sitting in a classroom, looking down | Source: Midjourney
Every smile, every shared glance between them was a dagger. Every story my friend recounted about their life together felt like a personal insult, a cruel reminder of what I could never have. I saw a future for them that mirrored the one I desperately wanted for myself, with that same person. It was a sickness, a twisted, beautiful agony that I carried alone.
The day of the party, I woke up with a profound sense of dread. I knew I couldn’t go. I just couldn’t. The thought of standing there, smiling, raising a toast to their happiness, while my own world crumbled inside me… it was unbearable. So I faked it. A sudden, debilitating migraine. A stomach bug. Something convincing enough that my best friend would understand, albeit with a touch of disappointment. They called, worried, wishing me better. I mumbled my apologies, my voice thick with feigned misery, but truly, it was misery of a different kind.
I couldn’t go.
A woman standing in a classroom | Source: Midjourney
The hours that followed were a blur of self-pity and silence. My apartment, usually a haven, felt like a tomb. I imagined the music, the laughter, the clinking glasses, the joyous declarations of love. Each imaginary sound twisted the knife a little deeper. I scrolled through social media, seeing the early posts, the gleaming faces, the excited anticipation. God, it hurt.
Then my phone buzzed. An unknown number. I almost ignored it, wanting only to wallow in my self-imposed solitude. But something compelled me to answer.
It was their partner. My best friend’s partner.
My breath hitched. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. Why were they calling me? I braced myself for a polite well-wish, a quick “sorry you missed it.”
“Hey,” their voice was quiet, a little strained. “Heard you weren’t feeling well.”
Raindrops | Source: Pexels
“Yeah,” I managed, my voice raspy. “Just a bad one. Sorry to miss everything.”
“Don’t be,” they said, and there was a pause. A long, uncomfortable pause. “I’m not there either.”
My blood ran cold. WHAT?
“What do you mean?” I whispered, a sudden, chilling fear gripping me. Had something happened? Was it called off?
“I… I just couldn’t do it tonight,” they confessed, their voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just at my place. Needed some quiet.”
The world tilted. My mind raced, trying to process this revelation. The fiancé, the star of the show, wasn’t at their own engagement party? It made no sense. And yet, here they were, calling me.
A dark parking lot | Source: Midjourney
We talked. For hours. What started as hesitant small talk morphed into a raw, unfiltered confession. They spoke of the pressure, the expectations, the suffocating weight of it all. They confessed to doubts, to fears, to a profound sense of loneliness that no amount of celebration could mask.
And I listened. Truly listened. Without judgment. Without the mask of the ‘supportive friend.’ I found myself sharing things I’d never dared to voice – my own anxieties, my dreams, the secret corners of my soul I kept hidden from everyone. The conversation flowed, effortlessly, like two rivers finally finding their way to each other after a long, winding journey.
“I feel like I can actually breathe talking to you,” they admitted, their voice softer now, tinged with a fragile vulnerability. “Everyone else… it’s all so loud. So much performance.”
Close-up of a woman’s face | Source: Midjourney
My chest tightened. Performance. I understood that word better than anyone. My whole life felt like a performance of normalcy, of happiness, of being okay with things that shattered me inside.
“I get it,” I said, my own voice thick with emotion. “I really, really get it.”
We laughed. We almost cried. We connected on a level I hadn’t known was possible with anyone, let alone them. It was like finding a missing piece of my soul. A deep, profound understanding bloomed between us in the quiet solitude of our separate homes, while the party raged on without us.
When the call finally ended, hours later, the silence in my apartment felt different. Not empty, but full. Full of possibility, full of a strange, thrilling hope. I felt seen. Understood. For the first time in forever, I felt truly, deeply connected to someone. This missed party, this quiet confession, it had brought us together. It felt like fate.
The next day, the hangover from our conversation was more potent than any physical ache. I replayed every word, every nuance. The way their voice softened when they talked about their dreams, the hesitation when they spoke of their doubts. It was all so real, so intimate.
A child sitting in a parking lot | Source: Midjourney
Then my phone buzzed again. It was my best friend. Full of apologies for not checking in sooner, full of stories from the party. They were still buzzing, recounting anecdotes, laughing.
“And guess what?” my friend said, their voice bubbling with excitement. “We announced it! At the party!”
My stomach dropped. “Announced what?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. A cold dread seeped into my bones.
“The wedding date, silly! We picked a date! Everyone was so excited!”
A WEDDING DATE.
My mind raced, trying to make sense of it. But they weren’t even there. They said they weren’t there. They said they couldn’t do it.
They said they couldn’t do IT.
Close-up of a young man’s face | Source: Midjourney
Suddenly, the pieces slammed together with horrifying clarity. The quiet confession. The doubts. The profound loneliness. The need for a ‘break’ from it all. My best friend had talked about their partner feeling overwhelmed by the party planning, by the sheer scale of the event. They’d mentioned they’d gone off to a quiet room to “decompress” for a bit, needing space.
My friend’s partner had called me from a quiet room at the party itself. Not from their own apartment.
They hadn’t missed it. They’d just… needed a moment. A moment they had filled with me.
My throat closed. My eyes burned. The connection, the intimacy, the shared vulnerability… it wasn’t an escape from the engagement. It was the engagement. It was their moment of cold feet, of overwhelming panic.
A grilled cheese sandwich | Source: Pexels
And I, the unsuspecting, secretly infatuated confidante, had provided the comfort. The distraction. The proof that they could still feel something else besides the crushing weight of their impending commitment.
My best friend was still talking, blissfully unaware, recounting details of the engagement party, and of their partner’s “brief moment of nerves before the big announcement.”
I hung up, my hand trembling. The heartfelt connection. It wasn’t about me. It was never about me. It was about them, standing on the precipice of a life they weren’t sure they wanted, reaching out for any lifeline. And I had been it. The unwitting accomplice. The emotional crutch. I had connected with someone who was betraying my best friend, even if it was only for a few desperate hours.
A child standing in a room | Source: Midjourney
And the worst part? I knew I would never tell my best friend. Because if I did, it wouldn’t just shatter their world. It would expose my own dark, secret love. And that, I realized, was a betrayal of a different, even deeper kind.
