He called me, his voice a ragged whisper on the other end. Not the usual confident tone, but shaky, panicked. He told me his car was totaled. Not just a fender bender, but gone. He needed $6,400. An insurance gap, he said, just enough to get a used car, to save his new Uber job, his warehouse gig. Without it, he’d lose everything. I’d just saved that money. Every penny. It was my ticket out of this awful basement apartment, the one with the leaky pipes and the constant smell of mildew. My escape. But he was my best friend. He promised it was temporary, just three months. He’d pay me back. I believed him. I wanted to believe him. I wired him the money right away. My future, my freedom, sent off with a click. A part of me screamed, what have you done? But a bigger part, the loyal part, told me it was the right thing to do. He needed me. The first month, there were excuses. Long texts, apologies, promises of interest. The second, replies got shorter. “Still working on it,” “tough month,” “soon.” By the third, it was silence. My messages went unanswered. My calls went straight to voicemail. Every time my phone buzzed, a spike of hope, followed by the familiar drop of disappointment. Was I really this naive?
Then, a few days later, it hit me. I was scrolling, numbly, through my feed when a picture popped up. Him. On a cruise ship. Sipping a cocktail, sunglasses perched perfectly. The caption: “Grind now, shine later ✨.”
SHINE LATER? HE WAS SHINING RIGHT NOW. ON MY MONEY!
Rage boiled in my stomach, hot and acidic. I clicked through his posts, a sick fascination taking hold. New car rims. Fancy brunches with perfectly plated avocado toast. Designer sneakers. A watch that probably cost more than my rent for a year. All of it flashing past my eyes while I was still stuck in my sketchy rental, trying not to cry every time the ceiling dripped onto my worn-out carpet. I felt like a fool. A complete and utter, naive, heartbreaking fool.
I was crushed. The betrayal was a physical ache. Eventually, the anger faded into a dull, defeated resignation. I gave up on getting my money back. I told myself karma would handle it. She always did. He’ll get what’s coming to him. I tried to believe that. It was the only thing that kept me from shattering completely.
And yesterday… she did.
I was at work, staring blankly at my computer screen, when my phone buzzed. A message. Not from him. An unknown number. I opened it, my heart already hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I read the first few words and the blood drained from my face. My hands started to tremble. I went completely, utterly pale. It said:
“It’s his mother. I found him. He’s gone.”
HE’S GONE. Not ghosted. Not avoiding my calls. Gone. My breath hitched. What did she mean, ‘gone’? I frantically typed back, but before I could hit send, another message popped up.
“The accident. It wasn’t an accident. Not really. He called it an ‘insurance gap’ to you, didn’t he? To get the money. He needed it for a down payment. Not on a car. On the clinic. The cruise… the photos… they were old. Or he edited them. All of it was a lie, a performance. He was trying to convince himself, I think. And everyone else. He was so ashamed.”
My mind reeled. The cruise? The car rims? The fancy brunches? ALL OF IT WAS FAKE? But why? Why lie like that?
The next message clarified, brutally, sickeningly: “He’d been spiraling for months. Lost the Uber job weeks before the ‘accident.’ Gambling debt. Depression. The crash… the first time he tried to end it all. He called you after, desperate. He used your money for a deposit at a treatment center. Your money was his last chance. But he couldn’t face it. He walked out after two days. The rest of your money… he spent it on a final spree. Trying to feel something, anything, before he tried again.”
MY $6,400. MY TICKET OUT. IT WASN’T FOR HIS NEW LIFE. IT WAS FOR HIS END. The images of him, laughing on a fake cruise, celebrating a fake success, flashed through my mind. IT WAS A SCREAM FOR HELP, AND I HAD MISUNDERSTOOD IT AS A TAUNT. My anger, my resentment, my prayers for “karma”—they were aimed at a man who was already suffering beyond anything I could comprehend. He wasn’t a callous thief; he was a broken man, drowning in a darkness I never saw.
The last message from his mother popped up. “He left a note. He mentioned you. Said he was sorry. Said he hoped you’d forgive him, that he always loved you like a brother. He just… couldn’t keep fighting.”
The phone slid from my numb fingers, clattering softly against the floor. The ceiling above me started to drip again, a steady, rhythmic plink-plonk. My awful apartment. My empty bank account. And now, this unbearable, crushing guilt. Karma didn’t just handle it. Karma reached out, grabbed my heart, and tore it to shreds. My best friend, gone. And I, unknowingly, was part of his tragic last act.
