Around 4 p.m., Dad loaded Fabian’s boxes into his car and took them to the building manager’s office as we’d arranged. Mom and I stayed in the apartment, jumping at every noise. We ordered pizza for dinner, but barely ate. The reality of what was happening had finally hit me. Two years of my life had been a lie.
Just after 8, the buzzer rang again. I checked the security camera feed on my phone. Fabian was back, looking even worse than before.
This time I decided to answer the intercom. His voice was slurred as he begged me to let him up. We needed to talk, he insisted. There had been a misunderstanding.
I didn’t respond right away, and he got angrier. Did I really trust my parents more than him? Was I that much of a daddy’s girl? Was I seriously throwing away two years over one stupid conversation?
I took a deep breath and finally spoke. I told him he’d called me convenient. That he’d plan to use me and then leave me for someone worth showing off. That he and his parents had laughed about it together.
There was a long silence. Then his voice changed completely. He sounded sober suddenly and calculated. He asked if I’d been recording him. If I knew that was illegal in our state without consent. If I understood I could get in trouble for that.
Dad took the phone from me. Then he told Fabian very clearly that if he didn’t leave immediately, we would call the police. That we had security footage of him harassing me. That he had exactly ten minutes to get off the property.
Fabian started shouting again, but Dad ended the call.
Mom called the building security while Dad and I watched the camera feed. After a few minutes, two security guards approached Fabian. There was some arguing, some gesturing, but eventually they escorted him off the property.
We spent that night jumping at every sound. Dad slept on the couch while Mom stayed with me in my room. I kept checking the security feed, half expecting to see Fabian trying to break in, but the night passed quietly.
In the morning, we finalized the new lease at the property management office. The car insurance was updated. My bank accounts were secured. I changed all my passwords and removed Fabian from my Netflix, Spotify, and Amazon accounts. It was like erasing him from my digital life, one login at a time.
The property manager confirmed that Fabian had picked up his boxes. The security team had been notified not to allow him into the building without my explicit permission.
My parents helped me rearrange the furniture, as if changing the layout could somehow erase the memory of him in that space. They stayed one more night and then had to get back to their own lives. Mom hugged me for a long time at the door. Dad looked like he wanted to say something profound, but in the end just kissed my forehead and told me to call them anytime, day or night.
And then I was alone. Really alone. For the first time in almost two years.
The apartment felt too big, too quiet. I wandered from room to room, touching things, trying to reclaim my space. I ordered takeout and ate it on the floor of the living room because sitting at the kitchen table felt too normal, too much like before.
My phone buzzed around midnight. A text from a number I didn’t recognize.
“This isn’t over. You’ve made a huge mistake.”
I knew it was Fabian. I didn’t respond, just blocked the number and turned off my phone. I lay awake until dawn, listening for footsteps that never came.
Last update. Okay, so it’s been exactly two weeks since everything blew up. And honestly, I’m exhausted. The constant texts from unknown numbers, the voicemails, the Instagram messages from fake accounts. It’s like dealing with a ghost that refuses to leave. I woke up this morning to 17—17—missed calls from different numbers between 2 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. I’ve blocked so many numbers at this point that my block list is longer than my contact list. Fabian clearly keeps using those temporary number apps or borrowing phones from friends.
At first, I listened to the voicemails thinking maybe he’d apologize in a way that felt genuine, but they just kept getting worse. The first few were what you’d expect. He was sorry. He didn’t mean it. He was just trying to impress his parents. Blah blah blah. Then they started getting angry. How could I do this to him? Did I know how much this was hurting him? By day four, they turned manipulative. Remember that time he took care of me when I had the flu? Remember our trip to the beach?
Now they bounce between threatening and pathetically sad. Yesterday’s gem. I’ve ruined his life. His sister lost her job because of me. His parents are disappointed in him. And he’s practically homeless. Then not 20 minutes later, he misses me so much. He can’t sleep. He just wants to talk.
What’s weirder is that I still catch myself almost responding. Like my thumb hovers over the keyboard and I have to physically put my phone down. Two years is a long time. You know, there are moments when I miss the person I thought he was before I knew the truth. But then I play the recording again.
“Her dad’s money keeps me comfortable.”
“I’ll find someone worth showing off.”
“Just don’t get her pregnant.”
My friend Julia came over yesterday. She’s been checking on me every couple days, which I appreciate more than I can say. We were scrolling through TikTok on my couch when my phone buzzed with a text from another unknown number. I ignored it, but she asked what was going on. I hadn’t told any of our mutual friends the full story yet. I just said Fabian and I broke up and it was messy.
But sitting there with Julia, I decided to just show her the recording. I watched her face change as she listened. Confusion, then shock, then this cold anger I’d never seen on her before. When it finished, she was quiet for a long time. Then she told me something that made my stomach drop.
Fabian had texted her three days ago asking if she’d seen me, saying he was worried because I was acting unstable and had made up some crazy story about him. She’d been vague in her response because she wasn’t sure what was happening, but now she understood. She pulled out her phone and showed me the thread.
It was worse than I thought. He told her I was having some kind of breakdown, that my parents were enabling it, and that he was desperate to help me, but couldn’t reach me. He even suggested maybe they should stage some kind of intervention.
I felt physically ill reading it. He was trying to gaslight my friends to make me sound crazy.
Julia immediately started texting other people in our circle to warn them. While she was doing that, I checked my email and found messages from him there, too, dating back several days. I’d been so focused on blocking him on my phone that I hadn’t thought to check my email. Some of the emails had attachments, photos of us together, screenshots of old loving texts I’d sent him, even a video from last Christmas where I’m opening the necklace he got me and looking so happy.
It felt like emotional blackmail, like he was saying, “Look how good we were together. Look what you’re throwing away.”
I deleted all of them and updated my email filters to send anything from him straight to trash.
That night after Julia left, I had trouble sleeping. Every noise made me jump. I kept checking that my door was locked. Around 2:00 a.m., I started scrolling through old texts between us, looking for signs I’d missed. There were so many comments about my dad’s business, questions about my trust fund, suggestions that I ask my parents for things he wanted. How had I been so blind?
The next morning, I woke up to knocking, not on my apartment door, but on my neighbor’s. I peeked through my peepphole and saw Fabian standing there looking surprisingly put together in a button-down shirt I’d bought him for his birthday. He was holding coffee and a bag from that bakery I love.
My neighbor Orlando opened his door, looking confused. I couldn’t hear everything, but Fabian was saying something about surprising me, but he’d forgotten his key. Thankfully, Orlando is suspicious by nature. He asked why Fabian didn’t just call me. I heard Fabian stammer something about wanting it to be a surprise. Orlando said he’d check with me first and closed his door.
A minute later, my phone buzzed with a text from Orlando asking if he should let some guy named Fabian in. I texted back a quick absolutely not with a brief explanation that we’d broken up and he wasn’t welcome. Orlando replied with a thumbs up. I watched through the peepphole as Orlando went back out and firmly told Fabian I didn’t want to see him.
Fabian’s face changed. That fake pleasant smile dropped instantly. He tried to argue, his voice getting louder. Orlando, who’s like 6’4 and works out religiously, just crossed his arms and stared down at Fabian until he finally gave up and left.
I texted Orlando a thank you with about 15 exclamation points. He responded that Fabian gave him bad vibes and to let him know if I needed anything. Note to self, bake Orlando some cookies as a proper thank you.
That afternoon, I was on a Zoom call for work when my buzzer rang. The building has a camera system, so I checked the feed on my phone. It was Lydia, Fabian’s mom, standing there with what looked like a gift basket. I ignored it. Five minutes later, it rang again and again and again.
Eventually, I pressed the talk button and asked what she wanted. She sounded sickeningly sweet as she said she just wanted to talk woman to woman, that there had been a terrible misunderstanding, that Fabian was devastated. Couldn’t I give him a chance to explain?
I told her that I’d heard everything I needed to hear on that recording. She immediately switched tactics, her voice hardening as she asked if I understood that recording people without consent was illegal in our state, that they could press charges if they wanted to.
I almost laughed. I told her to go ahead and try. The recording was made in their house during a dinner they had invited me to. I hadn’t shared it publicly or used it for blackmail. I’d simply played it for my parents and a couple close friends to explain why I was ending the relationship.
Then I hung up and watched through the security feed as she stood there for another ten minutes before finally leaving the gift basket by the door and walking away. The building manager texted me later to say they’d removed an abandoned package from my doorway. I thanked them and asked them to throw it away.
That evening, my dad called to check in. He tries to sound casual, but I can tell he’s worried. He mentioned that Fabian had shown up at his office that day, asking to speak with him. Security had escorted him out, but not before he made a scene in the lobby, shouting that my dad had ruined his life and turned me against him.
I felt terrible. This was affecting my dad’s business now, but he assured me it wasn’t a big deal, that security had handled it, and that I shouldn’t worry. Still, I could hear the tension in his voice. This was escalating in ways none of us had expected.
The next day, Saturday, I decided to get out of the apartment. I’d been basically hiding inside for days, and I needed fresh air. I went to this little coffee shop about three blocks away, found a corner table, and just sat with my book, trying to feel normal for an hour.
I was halfway through my latte when I got that feeling. You know, the one where you just know someone’s watching you. I looked up and saw Catalina, Fabian’s sister, standing by the counter staring at me. Our eyes met, and for a second, I thought she might come over and make a scene. Instead, she just gave me this cold look and walked out.
I stayed another 15 minutes, but my hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t focus on my book. When I finally left, I took a different route home, constantly looking over my shoulder. It felt ridiculous, like I was the wrong party here, but I still felt like I was the one who had to hide.
When I got back to my apartment, my mom was waiting in the lobby. She’d brought groceries and dinner, saying she just wanted to check on me in person. We spent the evening watching Netflix and not talking about Fabian, which was exactly what I needed. She stayed over, sleeping on the couch.
Around midnight, my phone started blowing up again. More unknown numbers, more texts varying between apologetic and angry. I silenced it and tried to sleep.
In the morning, Mom and I were having coffee when someone started pounding on my door. Not knocking, pounding like they were trying to break it down. I checked the peepphole and saw Fabian looking disheveled and angry. He was shouting my name, demanding I open the door, saying he knew I was in there.
My mom immediately called building security while I stood frozen, watching him through the peepphole. He started kicking the door, each thud making me jump. I found my voice and told him to leave, that security was on the way. He laughed, actually laughed, and said he just wanted to talk, that if I just listened to him for five minutes, he could explain everything.
I asked what there was to explain. Did he deny saying those things? There was a pause, then more pounding. He wasn’t denying it. He was just angry he’d been caught.
Security arrived a few minutes later. Two guys who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. I could hear them telling Fabian he needed to leave. There was some scuffling in the hallway, raised voices. My mom and I stood in the kitchen, not speaking, just listening. Finally, it went quiet.
My phone buzzed with a text from the security team saying they’d removed him from the building and called the police because he’d become physical. Apparently, he’d shoved one of the guards when they tried to escort him out.
Mom and I just looked at each other. This was getting dangerous.
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