If you’d told me three years ago that I’d be sitting in a parking lot, watching my own boyfriend show up early to cheat on me with a woman I’d invented, I’d have laughed.

Back then, I was still the girl who believed pretty words meant something.

His words, especially.

1. The Entrepreneur

I met Kylin at one of those crowded apartment parties that smell like spilled beer and too much cologne.

It was a friend-of-a-friend’s birthday. I was half thinking about leaving when I saw him in the corner of the living room, leaning against the exposed brick like he owned it.

He had that kind of presence people either grow or buy: fitted t-shirt stretched over gym shoulders, watch that caught the light, sneakers too clean for a city sidewalk. A circle had formed around him.

“…Thailand changed my whole mindset,” he was saying, gesturing with a bottle. “When you’re out there alone, it’s just you, your hustle, and the world. No safety nets.”

He pulled out his phone and started flipping through photos for whoever leaned in first. Longboats in turquoise water. A rooftop pool. Him on a balcony, shirtless, city lights behind him.

The girls laughed in the right places. The guys nodded like they, too, were one ticket away from enlightenment.

I rolled my eyes internally—just a little—and then he looked up and caught me watching.

And smiled.

Not the greasy, “hey girl” smile. A direct, confident, I see you kind of smile.

Ten minutes later, we were on the balcony, the winter air snapping our words into white puffs. He asked what I did; I said I worked in marketing. He said, “I’m an entrepreneur,” like it was a birthright.

“Cool,” I said. “What kind?”

He laughed. “A little of everything. I consult, I coach, I build brands. I help people get unstuck.”

He said it smoothly, no hesitation. I didn’t push. At twenty-five, “entrepreneur” was still glamorous to me instead of a red flag with a ring light.

He talked. I listened. He was animated, passionate, funny. He had a story for everything. The time he’d talked his way into a VIP club in Vegas. The podcast guy who wanted to interview him. The client who’d doubled their income after doing his “mindset audit.”

“People don’t get it,” he said. “Nine-to-five is death. You work for someone else’s dream while your soul rots.”

I laughed. “Tell me how you really feel.”

He grinned. “I just did.”

By the end of the night, we’d exchanged numbers. By the end of the week, we’d had our first date at a rooftop bar he said was “very on-brand.”

He texted good morning every day. He sent me voice notes about inspiration and grind and “our potential.”

He wrote me a poem—an actual, rhyming poem—two weeks in.

You’re the glitch in my matrix
The pause in my grind
Proof that alignment can happen
In heart and in mind

It was corny and sweet and exactly the kind of thing I’d always secretly wanted.

So I ignored the first red flag.

2. The Instagram

I’m not a big social media person.

My Instagram has, like, four hundred followers, all people I actually know. I post my dog, my attempts at cooking, the occasional mirror selfie when I remember I own mascara.

So when I learned that Kylin had 15,000 followers, my first reaction was: “…how?”

He laughed, like that was the joke.

“Branding, baby,” he said. “Consistency. Value. Vulnerability.”

His grid was… a lot.

Daily posts. Motivational quotes in bold fonts over black-and-white cityscapes. Gym selfies with captions about discipline. Airport photos. “Grind now, shine later” stuff. Links to his “entrepreneurial coaching packages” in the bio.

Over time, I noticed the pattern:

Living the single life has its perks.
Freedom is everything.
The only commitment I need is to my goals.

No photos with friends. No family. No girls.

Certainly no girlfriend.

First year, I let it slide.

We were great offline. He was attentive and thoughtful in ways I hadn’t experienced before. He’d show up at my work with coffee “just because.” He planned dates that felt like something out of a movie—sunset park picnics, reservations at restaurants I’d only ever walked past.

He wrote more poems. Each one told me I’d “changed his perspective on love,” that I was the first woman who truly “understood his journey.”

So when he never posted me, I told myself it didn’t matter.

I wasn’t fifteen. I didn’t need to be #couplegoals.

Besides, he posted so much about work. Maybe he just wanted to separate his “brand” and personal life.

It wasn’t until year two that the captions started to itch.

We’d go on a hike together. I’d snap a photo of the view, maybe of the ridiculous sandwich he’d packed. He’d take twenty photos of the same view, take his shirt off, pose with his arms up like he’d conquered Everest.

Later, I’d see the post.

Freedom is everything.
📍 same trail, same overlook
No mention of me.

We went on a long weekend trip to the coast. He posted a photo of himself on the balcony, sunglasses on, captioned:

Some guys have wives.
I have WiFi and a vision.

We were literally sharing a bed while he told 15,000 people he was married to the grind.

Still, I swallowed it.

He was so good in person. So loving. When we were together, it felt real. Surely that mattered more than how he curated his feed.

Until one night, six months ago, when it stopped feeling harmless.

3. “Labels Kill Love”

We were having dinner at his apartment, sushi spread out on the coffee table, some Netflix show murmuring in the background.

His phone buzzed on the couch beside him. He picked it up so fast it might as well have been wired to his hand.

I watched his face change. Not dramatically—just a little lift of the mouth, the tiniest spark in his eyes.

“Who’s that?” I asked casually.

He tilted the screen away. “Networking contact,” he said. “We’re talking collabs.”

“Oh. Cool.”

It wasn’t the first time. He was always “networking” after midnight.

The thing about ignoring red flags is they don’t go away. They just pile up until one small, stupid thing tips the whole stack over.

For me, it was a caption.

He’d posted a shirtless mirror selfie—one of those “post-leg-day” things. The caption read:

Single. Focused. Unstoppable.
If she’s not adding to the mission, she’s a distraction.

It had 3,000 likes. The comments were full of fire emojis and “preach bro” and “where do I find a man like this 😍”

I stared at it on my phone, sitting in the bed we shared, and something finally snapped.

So sitting there on his couch, watching him grin at his phone, I said, “Can I ask you something?”

He glanced up, already wary. “Sure.”

“Why don’t you ever post us?” I asked. “Like, anything. A story, a tag. Anything that shows you’re in a relationship.”

He gave me the kind of smile you give a child who doesn’t understand that Santa isn’t real.

“Labels kill love, baby,” he said.

I actually thought he was joking. I waited for him to laugh.

He didn’t.

“What we have is beyond social media,” he continued. “Come on. You really want to reduce us to a hashtag? I’m building a brand here. My followers respond to freedom and independence.”

“Your followers respond to you pretending you’re single,” I said.

He sighed, put his chopsticks down, and leaned toward me like he was about to deliver a sermon.

“Do we not have a real relationship?” he asked. “Do I not show up for you? Do I not write you poems, take you out, support you?”

“Yes—”

“Then why do you need random people on the internet to validate that?” he cut in. “Because that’s what this is. Validation. You’re not that girl, are you? The one who needs her boyfriend to post her to feel secure?”

I felt it—deep in my gut—that twist of shame.

“No,” I said quickly. “I just… it feels like you’re hiding me.”

“Hiding you?” He laughed, a sharp, disbelieving bark. “You know how dramatic that sounds? I’m not hiding you, Milana. I’m protecting what we have from people who don’t get it. Instagram ruins relationships. People see a happy couple and they project their crap onto it. I’m not letting trolls into our love.”

It was such a neat, convincing little speech that I almost believed it.

Almost.

But then I remembered that caption: Single. Focused. Unstoppable.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “So can you at least not say you’re single?”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s an archetype. It’s marketing. When I say ‘single,’ I mean unattached to mediocrity. You know that.”

I didn’t push further.

He made me feel like I was being silly just for asking.

He went back to his sushi. Back to his phone. Back to his comments section, where strangers kept calling him “hubby material” and DMing him heart emojis.

I went home that night with a pit in my stomach.

I tried to ignore it.

Then I found the notebook.

4. The Notebook

Two months ago, I was helping him move an old armchair out of his office.

He’d decided he needed a “more minimalist” workspace for his content. In Kylin-speak, that meant an empty corner with a plant and a ring light.

He went to go get the toolbox. I stayed, pushing the chair away from the desk.

That’s when I saw it.

A notebook lay open on his desk, half under his laptop. The words Content Calendar were written in all caps at the top of the page.

I wasn’t snooping. I swear.

My eyes just… caught on a bullet point written in his fast, jagged handwriting.

Keep posts aspirational.
Maintain single entrepreneur aesthetic.
Female followers engage more with available men.

I froze. My fingers stayed curled around the back of the chair.

Available men.

It wasn’t some unconscious oversight. It wasn’t him “protecting our love.” It was a strategy.

I heard him coming back down the hall, his voice humming some song under his breath.

I dropped my gaze, moved the chair like nothing had happened.

After that, I started watching more carefully.

At events, he’d pull out his phone, stretch his arm out, and take group photos. If I shifted in, he’d subtly angle his body so I was just out of frame.

At dinners, he’d pan across the table in his Stories: the food, the wine, the candlelight. The camera would always cut away right before it reached me.

Late at night, his phone would light up. Messages. Always messages.

“Who’s that?” I’d ask.

“Networking,” he’d say. “Business. You wouldn’t know them.”

If I leaned over on the couch, he’d tilt the screen away.

Little things. Enough things.

Put them together with that notebook and they formed a picture I couldn’t ignore.

So I decided to make a picture for him.

5. Lilith

Three weeks ago, I sat on my couch with my laptop and my heart pounding.

I opened a new Instagram account.

Username: @lilith.in.motion. Age: 25. Occupation: freelance designer. Location: a different state.

For the photos, I texted my old college roommate, Amber.

“Random question,” I wrote. “Does your cousin Harper still not have social media?”

Amber replied: “Nope, hates it. Why?”

“Can I borrow like five of her photos? I’ll explain later. It’s for something important. I promise I’ll show you.”

Amber trusted me enough to say yes and sent me a handful of Harper’s photos—generic enough to be anyone: walking through a city, laughing at a coffee shop, sitting on a park bench.

I built Lilith’s profile like I’d build a client’s.

Six posts: coffee, a city sunset, a shot from behind walking down a street, a brunch plate, a mirror selfie, a pile of open books.

Generic lifestyle content. Enough to look real.

Then I followed a bunch of “entrepreneur lifestyle” accounts. Mindset gurus, fitness bros, “grindset” memes.

And Kylin.

It took three hours.

He followed back and, fifteen minutes after that, a new message appeared in Lilith’s inbox.

Kylin: Hey, beautiful. Love your vision. 🔥
Saw your posts—definitely feel like we’re on the same wavelength.
We should connect sometime.

My stomach dropped.

I stared at the screen in my own name, then switched accounts and stared at the message addressed to Lilith.

Beautiful.

Love your vision.

We should connect sometime.

I put my phone down and walked into the bathroom.

I splashed water on my face. I told myself to breathe. I told myself that if I started this, I needed to see it through.

Back on the couch, I picked up my phone and typed.

Lilith: Hey 🙂
Thanks! Just trying to build something real, you know?
Appreciate the love on my posts.

He replied within seconds.

Kylin: That’s rare these days. Most people are asleep.
Your energy is different. I can feel it.
What’s your story?

For two weeks, we messaged.

He told Lilith he was “completely single.” That he’d been “solo for years—freedom is essential to my journey.”

He sent Lilith poems.

The same poems he’d sent me, copied almost word for word with minor tweaks.

You’re the glitch in my matrix…

He suggested date spots.

The exact same rooftop bar he’d taken me to for our first date. The sushi place where he’d told me labels killed love.

He told Lilith he was looking for someone “who understands the grind,” “who doesn’t need labels,” “who can handle a man who prioritizes growth over attachment.”

When she asked if he’d ever been in a serious relationship, he sent a long message about “girls who tried to clip his wings” and how he’d had to choose between love and his vision.

“Some women can’t handle a real man,” he wrote. “So I’ve been solo. It’s better that way.”

I took screenshots of everything.

Saved them to my cloud. Emailed them to myself. Backed them up on my work drive under a boring folder name.

If he was going to lie, I wanted receipts.

And then, one night, he asked Lilith if she wanted to meet.

I live in another city, she wrote.

He replied: “I travel. Where are you?”

I mentioned my actual city.

“Crazy,” he said. “I’m going to be there soon anyway for some meetings.”

So I suggested the Italian restaurant downtown—the upscale one that requires a deposit and that he had been saying for weeks he wanted to take me to for our three-year anniversary.

Lilith: “What about [Restaurant Name]? Heard it’s amazing.”

Kylin: “Been wanting to try that place 🔥
Let’s do it. Friday? 7:15 at the bar?”

He had already booked our anniversary dinner there.

Seven-thirty.

He wanted to slot Lilith in at 7:15, charm her, get her number, then pivot straight into an anniversary dinner with me like these were just two blocks on his content calendar.

I agreed.

Then I called my best friend, Stacy.

6. The Plan

Stacy is the kind of friend who, upon hearing you’re about to catfish your own boyfriend, doesn’t say “Are you sure?” so much as “Okay, what’s the lighting situation?”

I told her everything. The fake profile. The poems. The date.

At one point she shouted, “He sent her the glitch in my matrix poem? That man has no shame.”

We went over the plan.

“Move your stuff out before,” she said. “As much as you can. You don’t want to do the walk of shame through his apartment after this.”

So the next weekend, while he was at a “networking event,” I methodically collected my life.

My important documents. The clothes I actually wore. My expensive skincare from his bathroom. My favorite mugs. My spare charger.

Half the closet emptied and rearranged itself so seamlessly he didn’t even notice it.

I packed a bag with the red dress I’d bought, the one he’d asked to see.

He’d texted earlier that day:

Kylin: What are you wearing Friday?
Let’s coordinate. Power couple vibes.

Me: Got a new red dress 🙂

Kylin: 🔥 Can’t wait to see you in it.

An hour later, on the Lilith account:

Kylin: What are you wearing Friday?
So I can recognize you 😉

Lilith: Thinking a blue dress.

Kylin: Damn. Blue is my favorite color.
Bet it brings out your eyes 😉

I printed the Lilith DMs. Printed screenshots of his captions. Printed the content calendar page I’d seen, after sneaking a photo the next time he was in the shower.

Everything went into a manila folder labeled in my head as Evidence.

The night before the dinner, he sent flowers to my office.

My coworker wheeled the vase to my desk.

Card: “To many more years together. –K”

I stared at the flowers. Then I looked at the screenshots on my phone.

A few desks away, Giovana raised an eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise?”

“You have no idea,” I said.

That night, I wrote out what I wanted to say to him on my Notes app. Then deleted it. Then wrote it again.

I didn’t know how it would actually come out in the moment.

I just knew I was done letting him be the only one with a script.

7. The Bar

Edit from my mental timeline: I was sitting in my car in the restaurant parking lot at 7:05 p.m. the next night.

He was already there.

Of course he was.

He was never early for dates with me. But for Lilith, the imaginary 25-year-old who loved his vision?

He was ahead of schedule.

His blue button-down—the one that matched Lilith’s fake blue dress—glowed in the bar lights through the front window.

I checked my makeup in the rearview. Red dress, diamond earrings he’d given me last Christmas, lipstick perfectly applied.

I wanted to look like myself.

Not a woman scorned. Not a girl trying to be “powerful” for Instagram.

Just me.

I walked in and spotted him instantly.

He sat at the bar, leaning forward on his elbows, back straight, eyes flicking to the door every time it opened.

He checked his phone. Typed something. Smiled. Checked the door again.

The hostess intercepted me with a practiced smile. “Do you have a reservation?”

“I’m surprising someone,” I said, nodding toward the bar. “He’s the one in blue.”

She looked over, saw him, and smiled wider. “Cute. I’ll pretend I didn’t see you.”

She probably thought I was about to cover his eyes from behind and whisper “Guess who.”

If only.

I stood by the entryway, half hidden behind a plant, and watched for fifteen minutes.

He ordered a whiskey neat—his “impressive” first-date drink. Kylin with me drank wine. Kylin with the world drank whiskey.

He checked his phone constantly. I could see the top of the screen light up with Instagram.

On the Lilith account on my own phone, messages popped up:

Kylin: Hey, just got here 😉
Sitting at the bar in a blue shirt.
Can’t wait to see you.

Then:

Kylin: You on your way?

He fixed his hair in the mirror behind the bar. Adjusted his watch. Smoothed his shirt.

My heart was beating, but in a weird, detached way—as if I were watching a show I’d seen spoilers for.

At 7:30, our reservation time, I walked over.

I laid my hand lightly on his shoulder.

He turned, smile already half-formed, expecting Lilith.

And stopped.

His eyes flickered: confusion → shock → forced delight.

“Milana!” he said, standing so fast his knee hit the barstool. “Wow, you look… you look incredible. You’re early for our reservation.”

“I’m exactly on time,” I said. “You’re early.”

He opened his mouth.

Before he could say anything, the hostess appeared.

“Table for two? Stewart?” she asked.

Kylin’s smile snapped toward her. “Yeah, that’s us.”

We followed her to a semi-private booth.

He kept glancing back at the bar, then toward the door.

“You looking for someone?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Thought I saw a business contact. That’s all.”

He talked, nervously, about his day. I nodded, asked polite questions, felt my patience stretch like an elastic band.

Ten minutes in, while he was in the middle of a story about a “potential investor,” his phone buzzed on the table.

He flipped it over quickly, but not before I saw the notification at the top.

Instagram: New message from lilith.in.motion.

“Who’s Lilith?” I asked.

He swallowed. “What?”

I reached across the table and took his phone gently from his hand.

He tried to grab it back. I pulled it out of reach.

“Are you looking for Lilith?” I asked.

His face went sheet-white.

“How do you… who is… what are you talking about?” he stammered.

Instead of answering, I unlocked his phone with the code I already knew, then set it down.

Then I picked up my own phone, opened Instagram, and switched to the Lilith account right in front of him.

His eyes widened so much I thought they’d fall out.

“You catfished me,” he said.

Not oh my god, I’m busted.

Not I’m sorry.

You catfished me.

Like I was the one on trial.

“Well,” I said calmly. “If it helps, you were definitely interested in my ‘vision.’”

I opened our DMs. Scroll, scroll, scroll.

I read his own words aloud to him.

“‘I’ve been solo for years. Freedom is essential to my journey.’” Scroll. “‘Some women can’t handle a man who prioritizes growth over attachment.’”

Between each sentence, I watched his mask crack.

First tactic: marketing.

“Okay, listen,” he said, leaning forward, voice low and urgent. “Yes, I talk to women online. It’s part of my brand. They DM me; I respond. It boosts engagement. It’s not real. It’s like—like acting. You know this.”

“Acting,” I repeated. “You told my alter ego you’ve been single for years.”

“That’s just archetype stuff,” he said. “People don’t follow guys who post about being taken. It’s marketing.”

“You invited her here tonight,” I said.

“It was CONTENT,” he exploded. “I was never going to actually—”

“You were going to ‘actually’ meet up fifteen minutes before your anniversary dinner with me.”

He flinched. “Okay, that looks bad. But I knew it was you,” he said suddenly, seizing on a new angle. “I figured it out. That’s why I went along with it. I wanted to show you how stupid these tests are. I was playing you.”

If he hadn’t looked so desperate, I might have laughed.

“You didn’t know it was me,” I said. “If you had, you wouldn’t have sent me—her—the same poems you sent me. The same date spots. The same lines. You just recycle the same script, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Second tactic: suspicion.

“I only started talking to that account because I thought you were cheating,” he said. “You’ve been distant. Secretive. Always on your phone. I had to test your loyalty. See if you’d trap me.”

“You thought I was cheating,” I repeated flatly. “So you… pretended to be single and hit on other women.”

“It’s complicated,” he said lamely.

Third tactic: minimization.

“Look,” he said, softening his tone, reaching for my hand. I let him grab air. “Yes, I flirted. I admit that. But it never went anywhere. I never slept with anyone. It was just words. DMs. That’s not real infidelity. You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“Not real,” I said.

“In three years,” he rushed on, “have I not loved you? Have I not shown up? Come on, Milana. You know what we have is special. Are you really going to throw that away over some stupid online flirting?”

“The ‘stupid online flirting’ where you told other women you’d been single for years?” I asked. “That online flirting?”

His eyes glistened. The tears were coming.

Fourth tactic: vulnerability.

He dropped his head into his hands for a second, then looked up.

“I know I have issues,” he said, voice cracking. “I grew up with no stability. Commitment scares me. Attention… I crave it. It’s not your fault. I just—” he sniffed theatrically “—I mess up. I need help. I’m willing to do therapy. Delete Instagram. Whatever you want.”

“How many others?” I asked.

His eyebrows knit. “What?”

“How many other Liliths?” I asked calmly. “How many other women you’ve told you were single while we were together?”

He hesitated.

Long enough.

“Just some flirting,” he said finally. “No one serious. Never physical.”

I didn’t believe him.

But that was the moment I realized I didn’t need to know the exact number to be done.

The waiter approached then, hovering nervously at the edge of our tension.

“Have you had a chance to look at the menu?” he asked.

“We won’t be staying,” I said, standing up.

“Milana, sit down,” Kylin said quickly. “We can’t just—”

“We can,” I said. “We’re done.”

I picked up my clutch and walked toward the door.

He scrambled after me, calling my name.

In the parking lot, he blocked me before I could reach my car.

“Don’t throw away three years over this,” he begged. “I was going to propose next month, okay? On our trip. I already have the ring.”

“We don’t have a trip planned,” I said.

He blinked. “I… I was going to surprise you.”

“You’re not very good at surprises,” I said.

He shifted tactics again, anger flaring.

“You set me up,” he snapped. “You catfished me. That’s psychotic, Milana. That’s not love. You clearly wanted out.”

I unlocked my car.

“I wanted the truth,” I said. “Now I have it.”

He kept talking as I started the engine. Begging. Blaming. Looping.

I rolled the window down an inch.

“I’ll be by tomorrow to get the rest of my things,” I said. “Don’t be there.”

He shouted my name as I pulled out of the lot.

I didn’t look back.

When I got home, my phone lit up like a slot machine.

Thirty-seven missed calls. Fifty-plus messages.

They ranged from:

I love you, please answer.

I can’t believe you did this to us.

You’re insane. You wanted to break up. This is on you.

I started a new note in my phone labeled: Kylin – Post-Breakup.

I logged the times. Saved the messages. Screenshotted everything.

I stopped reading after he sent, “You set me up. That’s not love.”

And went to sleep.

Kind of.

8. Aftermath

At two in the morning, a notification popped up on my screen.

Instagram: Kylin has unblocked @lilith.in.motion.

Then:

Kylin (to Lilith): I knew it was you all along.
I was just playing your little game.
You really think you can test a man like that and he won’t clap back?
This just proves you never trusted me.
Now I can’t trust you either.

I took screenshots.

Blocked him from Lilith, too.

The next day, I texted his roommate.

Shane and I had always gotten along. He was the one normal person in Kylin’s orbit. The guy who worked a regular job, paid his rent on time, and didn’t shout “rise and grind” at sunrise.

Me: Hey, is there a time today I can grab the rest of my stuff from your place when Kylin isn’t home?

He called immediately.

“Uh, he told me you guys had a little tiff but were fine,” Shane said. “What’s going on?”

So I told him. Not every detail—nobody needs to hear about your ex’s recycled poems—but enough.

“Holy shit,” Shane said. “Wow. Okay. Yeah. Come at noon. He has pickup basketball on Saturdays. I’ll be here.”

When I arrived, Shane opened the door with a guilty look on his face.

“I should probably apologize,” he said. “I… I thought those girls were his clients.”

My stomach lurched. “What girls?”

Shane scratched the back of his neck. “He’s been bringing women over when you’re out of town for work. I figured you knew? He always said they were ‘content collaborators’ or like, ‘networking after events.’ I didn’t think he’d be that bold if he was in a real relationship.”

He looked genuinely stricken.

“How many?” I asked.

“Couple a month, at least, the last year,” Shane said quietly. “I’m really sorry, Milana.”

I kept my face together somehow. My insides felt like they were sloshing around.

We packed the rest of my things quickly. Books, shoes, the last of my toiletries. A sweater I’d forgotten in the hall closet.

While we were in the kitchen, Shane said, “He also had this Vegas thing.”

“What Vegas thing?” I asked.

“He printed a hotel confirmation last week,” Shane said. “Two guests, one room, next weekend. When I asked, he said it was a last-minute business trip. That he might bring a plus-one if the ‘right person’ came along. I thought he meant you. Guess not.”

We carried the last box to my car.

As I was backing out, Kylin’s car pulled into the lot.

He jerked to a stop, blocking the exit.

Of course.

He jumped out of his car and stalked up to mine.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Getting my stuff,” I said through my rolled-down window. “Shane knows everything.”

His face changed. He looked over his shoulder at the apartment, then back at me.

“Shane is lying,” he said quickly. “He’s always been jealous of us. Of me. You can’t trust him.”

I put the car in gear.

“Move your car,” I said. “Or I’ll call building security and the police.”

He hesitated, then stepped back.

He moved his car. Then tailed me out of the lot for three blocks, calling me from different numbers after I blocked his.

I pulled into a busy coffee shop parking lot and sat there until my hands stopped shaking.

Then I drove home.

Stacy came over that night. She brought ice cream and wine and the kind of wordless, fierce hug you only get from someone who loves you enough to help you dig your life out of someone else’s apartment.

“He’s not done,” she said, eventually, when we were halfway through a pint.

“I know,” I said.

And he wasn’t.

9. Smear Campaign

The thing about someone obsessed with image is they don’t just lose you.

They lose their favorite mirror.

And they will fight like hell to get some version of that reflection back.

By Monday, he’d pivoted his manipulation outward.

My sister Lena called first.

“Why is Kylin messaging me on Facebook?” she asked. “Asking if you’re okay?”

I closed my eyes. “What did he say?”

“He said he’s worried about you,” she said. “That you’re ‘in a fragile place’ and ‘making up stories’ about him to push him away. Wanted me to check on you. He acted like he was staging an intervention.”

I laughed. It came out more like a choke.

“I’m fine,” I said. “He’s spinning. Here, let me send you the receipts.”

I texted Lena the screenshots—the Lilith DMs, the content calendar note, the notebook photo Shane had taken later.

She read them. Then: “I’m going to kill him,” she said brightly. “Just FYI.”

My dad called that evening.

He’s not a big talker, my dad. One of those men who expresses love more through fixing things than through lectures.

“Your boyfriend just reached out,” he said, voice tight. “Asking me to help with your ‘emotional issues.’”

“Oh my God,” I said.

“What is going on, Milana?” he asked.

So I told him. The catfish. The cheating. The harassment. The family smear.

He was quiet. Then: “If he contacts us again, I’ll handle it. And you should talk to someone about a restraining order.”

“Legal aid said I need more explicit threats,” I said. “I’m keeping a log. But his mom’s already on it.”

“Good,” Dad said. “In the meantime, you got people. He doesn’t get to rewrite who you are.”

At work the next day, a massive bouquet of roses appeared on my desk.

The card: “We need to talk. Three years deserves more than this. –K”

Giovana watched as I picked them up, walked them to the break room, and set them by the sink with the little card face down.

“Another present?” she asked.

“Free flowers for anyone who wants them,” I said. “From a guy who doesn’t exist anymore.”

She raised her eyebrows and didn’t ask more.

Later, she came to my desk.

“By the way,” she said, “the guy who dropped those off? It wasn’t a florist.”

I looked up. “What?”

“Some intense guy,” she said. “Asked about your schedule. If you had a boyfriend. If you were seeing anyone new. I pretended not to know.”

My skin crawled.

That afternoon, I called a legal aid clinic. They told me what I already half knew:

“Document everything. Messages, calls, gifts after you’ve told him to stop. If he shows up uninvited somewhere or makes explicit threats, we can talk restraining order.”

So I started an actual log. Date, time, behavior.

I didn’t have to wait long to add entries.

Wednesday, he sat in his car in my office parking lot.

I spotted him through the glass doors as I was leaving.

I turned around and went back inside.

“Hey, Nathan,” I said to my six-foot-four coworker. “Want to walk me to my car?”

He did.

By the time we walked out together, Kylin’s car was gone.

There was, however, a handwritten letter tucked under my windshield wiper.

I picked it up, didn’t open it, walked back to the trash can by the entrance, and dropped it in.

I didn’t need to read eight pages of “my door is always open when you realize what you threw away.”

Thursday, his mother called.

She sounded tired. Older than the last time I’d seen her at a brunch she’d insisted on paying for while asking me when Kylin and I were going to give her grandbabies.

“Milana, I am so sorry,” she said. “For whatever he has dragged you into.”

We talked. Not long. She didn’t ask for details this time—I’d already given them once. She just said she was “trying to get through to him” and that he’d always had trouble accepting no.

“Please be careful,” she said. “And if he does anything else, call me.”

“I appreciate it,” I said. And I did. But I also knew I couldn’t rely on his mother to manage his obsession.

Friday, he escalated in a new way.

Stacy and I were at a restaurant downtown. She posted a quick Story of our appetizer. Clinking glasses. Restaurant tag.

Brad mistake.

Thirty minutes later, Kylin walked in with another woman.

They were seated across the room, directly in my line of sight.

She was pretty. Brown hair, nice smile, dressed like she thought she was on a date with a normal guy.

He laughed too loudly. Touched her arm a lot. Kept sneaking glances at me to see if I was watching.

“I think we’ve been blessed with a live performance of ‘Jealousy Theater,’” Stacy muttered.

I refused to give him what he wanted.

We ate our dinner. Talked about everything except him. Paid the check.

On his way to the bathroom, he deliberately walked past our table.

He leaned down and murmured, just loud enough for me to hear, “This could still be us if you’d stop being so dramatic.”

I stood up.

I looked him in the eyes.

“Leave me alone,” I said. Clear. Calm. “Do not contact me, my friends, or my family again. We are done. If you continue, I’ll get a restraining order.”

His face turned red.

“You’re making a scene over nothing,” he hissed.

“Say hi to your date,” Stacy said brightly over my shoulder.

We left. The other woman looked bewildered as we passed, eyes darting between us.

Part of me wanted to slip her a note: Run.

But you can’t rescue everyone from their own red flags.

10. Patterns

Saturday, he pivoted to vaguebooking.

He posted black-and-white Instagram quotes about forgiveness and “not knowing the full story.” He wrote captions about “people lashing out when they’re hurting.” He shared photos of sunsets with hashtags like #healing and #growth and #forgiveness.

He tagged me in a throwback photo from a year ago—us at a pumpkin patch, my arm hooked through his, both of us squinting in the sun.

Caption:

Missing what was real.

I untagged myself immediately. Set my profile to private. Blocked his account.

People still saw.

Coworkers. Acquaintances. My uncle in Ohio.

I got DMs: “Are you guys okay?” “Did something happen?”

I ignored them.

Sunday, the universe decided I needed more context.

I was at the grocery store, staring at a display of cereal, when a woman stepped up beside me and said, “Milana?”

I turned. I recognized her face from old photos on Kylin’s phone.

Kellen. The ex he’d occasionally referred to as “crazy” in that dismissive way—never with details, just enough to paint her as unstable.

“I’m Kellen,” she said, confirming it. “I used to date Kylin.”

“Oh,” I said. “Hi.”

She looked apologetic. “I’m not trying to be weird. I saw his posts this week and… I thought I should say something.”

We ended up in the Starbucks corner of the store, paper cups between us.

“I wish someone had told me,” she said. “When I left him.”

She laid out a story that sounded like mine, with slightly different props.

He’d swept her off her feet. Poems. Trips. Love-bombing.

He’d refused to post her.

He’d had “business trips” that smelled like cologne and lies.

When she broke up with him, he’d refused to accept it. Showed up at her work. Messaged her friends. Started dating her coworker briefly to stay in her orbit.

“He sent me that glitch in my matrix poem,” she said dryly. “Thought I was special for a minute.”

My stomach rolled. “He sent it to me too.”

She nodded. “He has a notebook. Scripts. Openers, closing lines, date ideas. He treats romance like A/B testing.”

She’d eventually moved apartments and changed her number to get away from him.

“I’m sorry you went through this,” I said. And I meant it.

“I’m sorry you did,” she said. “But I’m glad you’re out.”

We exchanged numbers, not because we wanted to be friends but because we were now part of a very specific club: Women Who Had Survived Kylin.

Monday morning, he tried one last social media stunt.

I woke to a batch of notifications.

Kylin had posted a series of screenshots of our texts. He’d cropped them carefully. Cut out his own worst messages. Trimmed mine so they looked irrational.

Underneath, he wrote:

I’m not sharing this to attack Milana, but to shed light on how mental health can impact relationships.
I tried to support her through her insecurity and paranoia, but you can’t help someone who doesn’t want help.

The comments were full of:

“Stay strong, king.”
“You deserve better.”
“We all have that one toxic ex.”

I stared at the screen.

My finger hovered over the “New post” button.

I could, in two minutes, upload my own screenshots. The DMs from Lilith. His voice memos. The Vegas hotel reservation Shane had sent me a photo of.

Part of me wanted to.

Badly.

But I pictured the comments. The chaos. The inevitable narrative of “crazy exes fighting online.”

Instead, I called his mother.

She answered on the second ring.

“Hi,” I said. “He’s posting edited texts about my ‘mental health’ now. I can involve a lawyer. Or you can.”

Three hours later, all the posts were gone.

Shane texted that evening.

Shane: His mom and uncle just went off on him.
Threatened to cut him off completely if he doesn’t stop.
Things are… intense over here.

We didn’t talk more.

He had his own escape to plan.

11. Miami

Three weeks after the restaurant, Stacy called and said, “You’re going to love this.”

She sent me a screenshot of Kylin’s Instagram bio:

Location: Miami
Bio: Building something real 🌴
Sometimes you have to leave to level up.

He’d posted a photo of himself at an airport with a caption about “major business opportunities” and “new chapters.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.

Then Shane reached out.

He and I met at a coffee shop near my office.

He looked ten pounds lighter, like someone had physically removed him from under a weight.

“I’m moving out,” he said. “Found a new place. His energy is… a lot.”

Over coffee, he filled in the gaps.

Kylin’s “entrepreneurial success” was mostly funded by his parents—especially his mom. They believed he was running a thriving online coaching business. He sent them doctored screenshots of “revenue dashboards” to prove it.

In reality, he had two small clients and spent most of his time making content for himself.

His parents sent “business expense” money every month. He used it on restaurants, trips, clothes, and camera equipment.

“When his mom saw your screenshots,” Shane said, “she demanded to see his books. Actual bank statements. It didn’t go well.”

To put it mildly.

She’d flown in. Brought an accountant. Discovered the house of cards.

“She gave him two options,” Shane said. “Move back to Ohio and work for his dad’s company. Or move to Miami, where his uncle could get him a real job. Either way, nine-to-five. Clock in, clock out. No more ‘playing entrepreneur’ on their dime.”

Moving to Miami became his “major business opportunity.”

He spent his last few weeks in town vacillating between rage and grandiosity.

“He kept saying no one understood his vision,” Shane said. “That he was being ‘punished for thinking big.’”

Before he left, he tried one last in-person tactic.

He came to my apartment building on a Sunday. Knocked for ten minutes. Sat in the hallway for an hour. Left a letter.

My neighbor George texted me a photo.

George: Hey, some guy was camped outside your door. Left this letter. Want me to bring it in?

Me: Is it from Kylin?

George: Yeah.

Me: Trash. Please.

George had already opened it, though, thinking it might be important. He sent me a snapshot of the first page.

Eight pages of looping handwriting, full of lines like:

I’m moving to Miami to become the man you deserve.
When I make it big, you’ll regret how you handled this.
My door will always be open when you realize what you threw away.

Even in goodbye, he couldn’t take responsibility. Couldn’t say, “I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

It was still a pitch. Still a promise. Still a threat.

I told George he could keep it or burn it. I didn’t want it in my house.

I thought, foolishly, that distance would end it.

But Instagram erases distance.

A month after he moved, he tagged me in twenty old photos of us.

Every one a carefully curated memory.

Pumpkin patch. Rooftop bar. Picnic in the park. Me laughing at something off-camera while he looked at the lens.

Each caption:

Missing what was real.
The one who got away.
Sometimes you don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone.

My phone lit up like a Christmas tree with “Kylin tagged you in a photo” notifications.

Colleagues saw. Friends saw. My aunt in Florida saw.

I untagged myself from every picture and blocked his account again.

Then I called his mother. One more time.

“This is harassment,” I said. “I have a log. I have screenshots. Your son is trying to drag me into his narrative again. I am two seconds away from filing for a restraining order with his full name attached.”

She didn’t argue.

The next day, the photos were gone.

Later, she texted that she and his uncle had sat him down in Miami and given him an ultimatum.

“No more contact,” she wrote. “In any form. If he reaches out again, he’s on his own. No job. No money.”

A week after that, I received a certified letter from a law firm in Ohio.

My heart rate spiked when I saw the return address.

I sat at my kitchen table, letter opener in hand, and peeled it open carefully.

It was not a lawsuit. It was, essentially, a formalized boundary.

A statement signed by Kylin, drafted by his parents’ attorney, acknowledging that he would cease all direct and indirect contact with me and that any further attempts could carry legal consequences.

I exhaled, long and slow.

It wasn’t magic. It didn’t rewrite the past three years.

But it was a line on paper. Backed by people who, finally, weren’t willing to fund his obsession.

12. After

It’s been months now.

Sometimes, I scroll past a motivational post and feel a phantom nausea—like seeing a food you once got food poisoning from.

Sometimes, I catch myself wondering if he’s in Miami posting palm-tree selfies about rebirth and destiny, telling new women they’re the glitch in his matrix.

It doesn’t matter.

He’s not my problem anymore.

I didn’t send his screenshots to his followers. I didn’t blast him publicly. I didn’t burn his brand to the ground, even though I could have.

I blocked him. I strengthened my privacy settings. I warned my workplace and my family. I built my own quiet force field.

There are days when I still feel stupid. For missing the red flags. For half-believing his spin. For letting him make me feel small for wanting something as simple as being acknowledged.

But then I remember the girl sitting in that Italian restaurant, in a red dress, sliding her own phone across the table and saying, “Are you looking for Lilith?”

I remember the woman in the parking lot telling him, calmly, “We’re done.”

I remember choosing not to fight a war for strangers in his comments.

I think about Kellen and me, sitting in a grocery store Starbucks, sharing horror stories and realizing his scripts didn’t change us.

We were still the women who left.

I think about my sister Lena, furious on my behalf. My dad, quietly saying, “You got people.”

Shane, packing his boxes. His mom, finally saying “Enough.”

My world didn’t explode when I lost him.

It got quieter.

It got smaller in some ways—no more dinners at places I couldn’t afford, no more over-the-top gestures scripted for Stories.

But it also felt more mine.

I can’t tell you that I’m fully healed or that I’ll never doubt my judgment again.

But I can tell you this: