Eight words. Sent. Done.

 I didn't go to brunch.

I texted her that morning: "I know what you did. Don't contact me."

Eight words. Sent. Done.

She called 11 times in the first hour. I didn't pick up once. Then came the texts — first denial, then panic, then a voice memo that was eight minutes of crying and excuses I didn't ask for.

I listened to it once. She said she was "going through something." That she "didn't know why she did it." That she "never meant to hurt me."

I've replayed that sentence a hundred times. I never meant to hurt you. But you did it anyway. Repeatedly. For months.

My husband finally found out — not from me. She called HIM, crying, begging him to make me talk to her. That's when I told him everything.

He was furious. Not just at her — at me too, for carrying it alone for so long. We had a long night. A hard one. But we came out the other side closer than before, which I wasn't expecting.

I ended up filing a police report. Not to destroy her life. But because $1,400 is real money, and because I needed something official. Something that said: this happened, it was wrong, and I didn't imagine it.

She's tried reaching out through mutual friends. Most of them took my side when they heard. One of them — someone I thought was neutral — told me I was "being dramatic" and that "friendships are worth saving."

I removed her from my life too.

People say losing a long friendship feels like a breakup. They're wrong. It feels like a death. You grieve the person, but also every memory you shared, because now you're looking at all of it differently. Was she always like this? Was I always this easy to fool?

I don't have a neat ending. I'm not "healed" or "at peace." I'm just... still here. Still figuring out who I trust now.

But I don't regret the eight words.