Part 1 

If you’d told me my college best friend would one day try to ruin my life, I’d have laughed in your face.
Because when I met Nancy Reed, she seemed like everything I’d ever wanted in a friend—confident, magnetic, unapologetically loud.

And me? I was the quiet girl in the corner, clinging to an old black hoodie that smelled like detergent and teenage insecurity.
My parents called it my “armor.” I called it survival.

Freshman orientation at Raleigh State was a blur of new faces, free pizza, and panic. But Nancy cut through the noise. She found me sitting alone under a banner that read “Welcome, Freshmen!” and plopped down beside me like we’d been friends forever.

“You look like someone who hates small talk,” she said, grinning.
She wasn’t wrong.

That first night, we talked until the dorm’s quiet hours kicked in. She told me about her major in communications, her ex-boyfriend who cheated, her dream of moving to New York.
I told her almost nothing, because people like Nancy didn’t stay friends with girls like me.

Except—she did.

Or at least, she pretended to.

Nancy had a way of saying things that sounded like compliments until you really thought about them.
“You’d be so hot if you lost twenty pounds.”
“You’re lucky you have a cute face, even if the rest of you’s still… working on it.”
“You should try skipping dinner. That’s what models do.”

The first few times, I laughed it off.
That’s just Nancy, I told myself. Blunt. Honest. Helpful, even.

Six months later, I’d lost fifty pounds and half my sense of self.
I couldn’t tell where her voice ended and mine began. Every calorie I counted felt like proof she was right—that I wasn’t good enough until she said I was.

And when I finally got catcalled outside the campus library one night, I texted her in a weird mix of pride and disbelief.
For a moment, I thought she’d be happy for me.

Instead, she smirked. “Congrats. You’ve officially hit the homeless-man demographic.”

I laughed at first, until she added, “He probably only liked you because you look like a ten-year-old boy. Perverts love that.”

Her words stung so bad I actually stopped walking.
She turned back and smiled. “I’m kidding. Don’t be so sensitive.”

That night, I stayed up staring at the ceiling, wondering why I always felt small around her—even when I was shrinking myself for her approval.

It happened during an economics lecture.
He sat next to me, smelled faintly of pine and coffee, and smiled when I dropped my pen.

“First semester?” he asked.

“Second,” I stammered. “You?”

“Same.”

His name was Leo Martinez. He had an easy laugh and the kind of calm energy that made you forget the rest of the world existed.
By the end of class, he’d asked for my Snapchat.

We started talking that afternoon and didn’t stop until 3 a.m.
Music, movies, weird childhood stories—we shared everything.
I told him about my hoodie obsession. He said he had one too, a gray one from high school he still wore when life sucked.
It felt like finding another piece of myself in someone else.

By the next week, he’d asked me out to dinner.
I was nervous but excited—until I told Nancy.

She came over that night, barging into my dorm room like she owned it.
“Show me this guy,” she demanded.

I showed her Leo’s Bitmoji. Her smile dropped.

“You actually think he likes you?”

I blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She dragged me in front of the mirror. “Look at yourself,” she said, voice sharp. “You shave your arms, right? Keep your skin baby soft? Eyes wide, skin pale, barely any curves…”

I flinched.

“These are the features of a child,” she hissed. “That guy’s a creep. You need to stay away from him.”

I stared at her reflection, trying to decide if she was serious or just… jealous.

“Thanks for your concern,” I said finally. “Now get out.”

I locked the door after she left. My hands were shaking.
It was the first time I’d ever told Nancy no.

It wouldn’t be the last.

Leo picked me up in a rented black car the next evening. He looked good—effortlessly good—and smelled like sandalwood.
The restaurant was candlelit and soft, everything I’d imagined.
Until the flashing blue lights appeared outside.

Police officers swarmed the entrance. One pointed directly at Leo.
“That’s him,” a voice yelled.

Nancy stood behind them, hair perfectly styled, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“That girl is fourteen!” she cried. “He’s been grooming her!”

Leo froze. “What the hell?”

We both showed our IDs, proving we were nineteen. The officers mumbled apologies and left.

Nancy just stood there watching me, her expression unreadable.
When I took a step toward her, she smiled—slow and eerie.

“Be careful who you trust,” she said, then walked away.

That was the night I realized Nancy didn’t just dislike me.
She hated me.
And she was willing to destroy anyone who loved me.

The next morning, my dorm door was covered in photos.
Me eating. Me walking to class. Me sleeping.
Each one had red marker scribbles: fat arms, ugly nose, child face.

I tore them down and threw them away, heart pounding.

Then came the email from the dean—accusations of academic dishonesty, screenshots of fake messages asking for test answers.
They weren’t mine. But someone had created a copycat account in my name.

When I showed my phone as proof, the dean believed me but said protocol required an investigation.
I left shaking.

Leo was the only person who made me feel sane.
He helped me file reports, change my passwords, replace my stolen laptop when Nancy broke into my room again.

Campus security said they couldn’t do much without proof.
But I knew it was her. Every cruel note, every missing thing, every whisper behind my back—she was everywhere.

And yet, when I saw her in the cafeteria one day, she smiled and waved like nothing had happened.

That’s when I realized: Nancy wasn’t just jealous.
She was obsessed.

Over the next month, my life became a horror film on loop.

She made fake accounts posting inappropriate photos under my name.
She slashed my bike tires.
She texted my mom pretending to be a counselor warning that I was “spiraling.”
Every time I blocked her, she found a new number.

I stopped sleeping.
I stopped eating.
I started documenting everything—every text, every photo, every lie.

Leo helped me build a digital folder like a case file. He said if the school wouldn’t act, the police would.

But one night, when I got back to my dorm, I found my clothes dumped in the hallway, drawers overturned.
Nothing stolen. Everything touched.

It wasn’t vandalism. It was a message: I can get to you anytime I want.

That was the night I decided—no more hiding.

Nancy wasn’t my friend. She was a threat.
And I was done being afraid.

I texted her one sentence:

“Meet me in the common room tonight. We’re ending this.”

She replied instantly:

“Finally. :)”

The common room was packed with students studying when I arrived. Perfect. Witnesses.

Nancy was already there, smiling like she’d won something.
“Miss me?” she said sweetly.

I didn’t sit. “Why are you doing this, Nancy? The fake reports, the photos, calling the cops—why?”

Gasps rippled through the room. People started watching.

Nancy tilted her head. “You sound crazy. Maybe you should talk to someone.”

“I did. Campus security. The police. The dean. I have proof.”

I pulled out my phone and showed screenshots of her files, photos from her laptop—her passwords to my accounts, copies of my schedule, even photos she’d taken from outside my window.

Her smile faltered. “You broke into my room?”

“You broke into my life!”

Her mask cracked, fury flashing through her eyes. “I was trying to protect you! He’s dangerous! You don’t understand—”

“Protect me by stalking me? By destroying everything I have?”

Silence. Then whispers. Students pulled out their phones. Recording.

Nancy realized what was happening too late.

She stood abruptly. “You’ll regret this.” Then she stormed out.

The videos went viral on the campus feed before midnight.

For the first time, people believed me.
For the first time, Nancy had nowhere left to hide.

 

Part 2 

The confrontation went viral before I even made it back to my dorm.
Clips of me standing in the common room with Nancy’s voice cracking under the weight of her own lies were everywhere.
People commented things like “Finally someone called her out,” and “I always knew something was off about her.”

But there were others, too—students who thought I was overreacting, who said I’d humiliated her on purpose.
I didn’t care. For the first time in months, I wasn’t invisible.
And that scared Nancy more than anything.

For about three days, it was quiet.
No texts.
No weird notes under my door.
No new “anonymous” reports to the dean.

Leo and I thought it was over.

We studied together, had lunch on the quad, went to see that terrible horror movie he’d been dying to watch.
We even joked about how I’d gone viral on campus like some kind of drama celebrity.

Then Thursday morning hit.

I walked into my dorm’s communal kitchen to grab breakfast, and everyone went silent.
That’s when I saw it—the Facebook post.

A long, emotional essay written by Nancy.
She’d flipped the story completely:
Claimed I’d been in love with her.
Said I’d turned violent after she “rejected” me.
Said Leo was “manipulating” me and isolating me from her.

The comments section was a war zone.
Some people defended me.
Others called me a liar.

I couldn’t breathe.

Leo pulled me out of the kitchen before I said something I’d regret.
“She’s trying to bait you,” he said. “Don’t give her what she wants.”

But it didn’t stop.
She started showing up outside our classrooms.
Sat two rows behind us in the cafeteria.
Smiled every time we made eye contact—like she was waiting for me to snap.

And the scariest part? She’d gained a small army of followers.

Three girls—people I barely knew—started tailing me around campus, whispering whenever I passed.
They’d bump into me in the hallway and laugh.
It was high school bullying turned psychological warfare.

By Friday night, things escalated again.

I came back to my dorm after a long study session to find a note slipped under my door.
In block letters, it read:

“You should have stayed fat and ugly. At least then you knew your place.”

I recognized her handwriting immediately.
It was the same messy cursive she’d used on the sticky notes she used to leave on my mirror freshman year: “You’re getting there!” and “No pain, no gain!”

I should have been numb by now, but my hands still shook as I slid the paper into my evidence folder.

An hour later, another note appeared.
This one was worse.

A drawing—crude, obscene, violent—with a threat written underneath.

Leo called Officer Joshua, the detective from our earlier report.
He told me to keep everything, not throw away a single scrap.
“Every piece matters,” he said. “She’s escalating.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I kept imagining footsteps outside my door.
Every creak of the building sounded like someone waiting.

The next morning, I woke to pounding.
Not a knock—pounding.

When I looked through the peephole, Nancy’s new “friends” were standing there.
Three of them, red-eyed and slurring their words.
It was barely 8 a.m., and they were drunk.

“Come out, liar!” one of them yelled. “Tell everyone what you did to her!”

Students were peeking out of their rooms.
Phones recording.

My RA showed up first, then campus security.
The girls scattered, laughing as they ran down the hallway.

I filed another report.
It felt useless, but I wasn’t going to stop documenting.

That night, I packed a bag and stayed with Leo in his dorm.
I just wanted to feel safe for one night.

He held me until I fell asleep.

Monday morning, I got the email:

“You are requested to appear before the disciplinary review board regarding your harassment complaint.”

Finally, a chance for this nightmare to end.

Dean Joyce sat at the head of the table.
Five administrators beside her, papers stacked neatly.

Nancy was already there, flanked by her parents.
Her mother’s pearl earrings gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Her father glared at me like I’d ruined their perfect daughter.

Leo had to wait outside; he wasn’t allowed to testify until later.

When the hearing started, Nancy went first.
Her voice was steady, rehearsed.
She painted herself as the victim of my “obsession,” claimed I’d hacked her accounts, followed her, tried to “steal her identity.”

Her mom cried on cue.

The panel looked sympathetic—until they asked for evidence.
Nancy froze.

All she had were a few printouts of the Facebook post and vague accusations.

When it was my turn, I opened my folder.

Every text.
Every photo.
Every timestamped report.

I didn’t raise my voice once. I just let the facts speak.

Then the witnesses came.
Heather—the girl Nancy had targeted last year—testified first.
Barbara, Nancy’s old roommate, admitted she’d seen the stolen laptop and heard Nancy brag about “teaching me a lesson.”
Even the IT department confirmed my computer had been hacked with malware when it was stolen months before.

Nancy’s face went pale. Her parents stopped crying.

After three hours, the panel recessed.
I walked into the hallway and collapsed into Leo’s arms.

When Dean Joyce came out, she smiled softly.

“The board has decided,” she said. “Nancy Reed is expelled, effective immediately.”

She also handed me a protective order.
Nancy was banned from contacting me in any form.

If she came near me again, it would become a criminal case.

I thought it was finally over.
I had no idea how wrong I was.

For a few days, it was bliss.
People apologized for believing her lies.
I could walk across campus without whispers trailing me.
Nancy’s old clique disbanded overnight.

Leo and I celebrated with takeout and a movie marathon.

Then, a week later, I got a letter.
A physical letter.

The envelope was pink, covered in tiny drawn hearts.

Inside, ten pages of looping handwriting.

“I forgive you for ruining my life. We were meant to be together. You’ll realize it soon.”
“He doesn’t love you, you know. He’s using you. I can see it. You’ll see it too.”

Leo found me shaking with the letter in my hands.
He took it straight to campus security.

Officer Ryan added it to my file. “She’s gone, but she’s not done,” he said grimly.

The college contacted the local police. They filed it as a violation of the no-contact order.

Leo suggested we get away for the weekend—to breathe again.
His friend Gary owned a cabin near Asheville. No cell service, no campus drama, just trees and quiet.

I said yes.

The drive was perfect.
Windows down, radio up, us singing off-key to every terrible pop song.
For the first time in months, I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

The cabin was small but cozy.
We cooked pasta, played cards, and fell asleep by the fireplace.

Saturday, we hiked around a lake, the world still and bright.
For once, I didn’t feel hunted.

That peace lasted until Sunday morning.

My phone buzzed nonstop.
Dozens of messages, from unknown numbers.

“Did you like the pasta?”
“The blue hoodie looked nice on you yesterday.”
“You always look happiest in the woods.”

I dropped the phone.
She’d been there.

Watching.

We packed in silence, hearts pounding.
Leo called Gary to warn him.
Then we drove straight to the nearest police station.

Officer Joshua met us there, furious. “She’s violated the order. We’ll put out a warrant today.”

Still, the damage was done.
She’d found us when no one else knew where we were.

And now, there was no denying it.
Nancy wasn’t just jealous anymore.
She was dangerous.

Back on campus, we learned how she’d found us.
Nancy had called Leo’s roommate pretending to be me, sobbing about an emergency.
He’d told her where we went without thinking.

She was that convincing.

The paranoia returned full force.
We slept with a chair under the doorknob.
Campus security did nightly patrols.

But Nancy wasn’t finished.

Wednesday afternoon, I saw her across the quad.
Just standing there. Watching.

When I ran to the security office, she was gone.
But footage later confirmed it—Nancy Reed, trespassing, staring at my dorm window.

A warrant was already out, but she was still one step ahead.

Thursday morning, I woke up to new photos slid under my door.
Me sleeping.
Me curled up beside Leo.

She’d been inside the room.
While we slept.

That was the moment my fear turned into cold fury.

They caught her the next day—hiding in an abandoned dorm room two doors down.
She’d stolen a master key and been living in the walls.

When the police searched the room, they found everything.
Photos. Notebooks full of obsession.
Plans.

They arrested her on the spot.

I moved across campus that weekend.
A new dorm. New locks.
Pamela—the head nurse who’d once comforted me during freshman-year sickness—helped me haul boxes.

Leo and I spent the first night in the new room watching dumb sitcoms and eating Chinese takeout.
For the first time, I actually slept.

Nancy stayed in jail until her arraignment.
When I went to court, I barely recognized her—thin, hollow-eyed, trembling.
Her parents cried silently behind her.

She mouthed something to me before they led her out. I couldn’t tell if it was sorry or mine.

Either way, I didn’t want to know.

Part 3 

When they called State vs. Nancy Reed, my hands were shaking so badly that Leo reached over and laced his fingers through mine under the table.
The courtroom was smaller than I expected, but the air felt heavy, like the walls were holding their breath.

Nancy sat beside her attorney, a thin man in a gray suit who kept whispering in her ear. She looked nothing like the girl I’d once called my best friend. Her hair hung in tangled clumps. Her skin was pale. Her eyes, the same hazel I’d envied, looked completely vacant.

When the judge read the charges—stalking, harassment, cyber crimes, breaking and entering—Nancy didn’t even blink.

The prosecutor laid out everything: the texts, the photos, the social media accounts, the notebooks from the dorm wall.
He mentioned the cabin, the trespassing, the threats.

I didn’t look at her once. I couldn’t.

Her parents were there, sitting two rows ahead. Her mother’s sobs echoed in the silence. Her father stared at the floor, jaw locked tight.

When they finally asked me to speak, I stood up and told the truth.

Not the sensational version people whispered about, but the real one—the lonely girl who mistook cruelty for friendship, who ignored red flags because she was so desperate to belong.

“I don’t hate Nancy,” I said finally. “But I can’t forgive her either. Not yet.”

The judge nodded, expression unreadable. “We’ll reconvene after recess to decide on bail.”

Outside, Leo hugged me so tight it hurt.
“It’s almost over,” he whispered.
I wanted to believe him.

After an hour, we were called back in.

The judge set bail at fifty thousand dollars, cash-only. Nancy’s parents couldn’t pay it.
She’d stay in jail until trial.

When the hearing ended, Nancy turned to look at me for the first time.
Her lips moved soundlessly, but I caught it this time.

“You’ll miss me.”

My blood went cold.

The officer led her away, shackles clinking against the tile.

For days afterward, I felt like a ghost in my own life.
Classes resumed, but I barely absorbed anything. Professors offered extensions.
Friends—real friends—stopped by with coffee and hugs, but every time someone knocked on my door, my heart jumped to my throat.

Leo refused to leave me alone for more than a few hours.
He walked me to class, slept on the couch in my new dorm, and checked the locks twice every night.

One evening, I asked him why he wasn’t scared off by all this.

He smiled sadly. “Because I’ve seen you fight through it. Most people would’ve folded months ago.”

I didn’t feel strong, but hearing him say it made me believe it, just a little.

Two weeks later, I got a call from Nancy’s lawyer.
He asked if I’d consider a plea deal: lesser charges, probation, and mandatory psychiatric treatment in exchange for her admitting guilt.

My first instinct was absolutely not. She’d terrorized me for months. She deserved to rot.

But then I remembered the hollow look in her eyes, the way her parents had sat there, broken.

I told the lawyer I’d think about it.

That night, I called my parents, Heather, and Leo.
Everyone had different opinions. My mom said I should protect my peace. Heather wanted her in jail forever. Leo was quiet for a long time before saying, “Do what feels right for you, not for revenge.”

By morning, I knew what that meant.

I agreed to the plea—on one condition:
Nancy would stay in treatment for a full year, inpatient, followed by five years of probation.
She’d have a restraining order and zero contact with me or anyone close to me.
If she violated anything, she’d go straight to prison.

The lawyer agreed.

When the judge accepted the deal, Nancy stood and whispered something to her attorney, who nodded.
Then she spoke, her voice fragile but clear.

“I plead guilty.”

She didn’t look at me once.

Life didn’t snap back to normal overnight.
But slowly, piece by piece, I built something new.

I started seeing a counselor for trauma recovery.
We talked about Nancy, yes, but also about the version of myself that had let someone like her get so close.

“You wanted to be loved,” my therapist said one day. “Even if it hurt. Especially if it hurt.”

She was right.

Learning to love myself without permission from anyone else was harder than facing Nancy in court.
But every time I looked in the mirror, I saw a little less fear and a little more strength.

Leo and I stayed together through all of it.
He never made me feel fragile, just human.
We spent weekends exploring nearby towns, taking pictures of murals, finding small joys in simple things.

For the first time in my life, peace felt possible.

Six months after sentencing, Nancy’s mother mailed me a letter.

She thanked me for agreeing to the plea deal and said Nancy was finally in treatment for severe borderline personality disorder and delusional attachment.

“She’s getting help she should’ve had years ago,” the letter read. “You saved her life by forcing her into care. I know that doesn’t make what she did okay, but I wanted you to know.”

I didn’t reply. But I kept the letter.

Something about it felt like closure.

By senior year, people rarely mentioned Nancy anymore.
Her story had become a cautionary tale, one whispered to freshmen as a warning about “toxic friendships.”

I didn’t mind.
If it kept someone else from ending up like me, it was worth it.

I focused on graduating, rebuilding my GPA, and figuring out what came next.

Leo got accepted into his dream grad program.
Heather and I rented an apartment together off-campus, filling it with string lights and too many plants.

For the first time, college felt like what it was supposed to be: freedom.

A year after the plea, I got another letter—this time from Nancy’s therapist.
She said Nancy wanted to write an apology as part of her recovery.
It would go through the therapist first, no direct contact.

I thought about it for weeks before saying yes.

When the envelope arrived, I sat on the floor and read every word.

“I don’t expect forgiveness.
I see now how sick I was, how much of my pain I projected onto you.
You were everything I wanted to be, and I hated you for it.
I know sorry means nothing, but I needed to say it anyway.”

I didn’t cry. I didn’t rage.
I just sat there quietly, feeling the weight of finality settle over me.

Then I folded the letter, placed it in the same box as the police reports, and locked it away.

It was done.

Five years later, I graduated with honors, got a job at a marketing firm, and married Leo.
Heather was my maid of honor.
We bought a little two-bedroom house outside Raleigh with a fenced yard for the dog we planned to adopt.

Sometimes, at parties, people ask if I’ve ever had a falling out with a friend.
I smile, sip my drink, and say, “Once. It taught me everything I needed to know about boundaries.”

And it’s true.

Nancy Reed taught me how to see red flags before they bled me dry.
She taught me that love without respect is just control.
And she taught me that healing doesn’t mean forgetting—it means learning how to live again.

Last spring, I heard from Nancy’s mother again.
Nancy had completed her treatment and transitioned to outpatient therapy.
She was working part-time at a bookstore and living quietly with her aunt in Maine.

“She’s doing better,” her mom wrote. “And she still hasn’t broken the no-contact order. I think she finally understands.”

I folded the letter and tucked it away, feeling something I hadn’t in years: peace.

Nancy would never be part of my life again.
But she’d also never haunt it.

As I sat on my porch that evening, dog curled at my feet, Leo bringing out two mugs of coffee, I realized the answer to the question I’d been asked a thousand times since all of it happened.

“How do you deal with a jealous best friend?”

You don’t.
You walk away.
You heal.
You build a life so full, so real, that their absence feels like freedom.

And that’s exactly what I did.

THE END