Chapter 4: The Other Man

A sleepless night. I watched the numbers on my alarm clock crawl from 1:00 to 2:45 to 4:13. The city was silent except for the occasional distant train whistle, and the cold sheets felt foreign without Natalie’s warmth beside me. By dawn, my mind was a mess of what-ifs and half-formed plans.

The next morning, I was determined to get to the bottom of these barrage comments. I scrolled through forums, messaged every tech-savvy friend I had, even tried searching for hidden cameras in my apartment. Nothing. It felt like the whole world had turned upside down and nobody else noticed.

Just as I reached the entrance of the medical research center, I saw something that made me freeze. The sun was barely up, the building cast in long blue shadows. Natalie was there, walking with her head down, lost in thought, her messenger bag bumping against her hip.

Natalie was walking absentmindedly down the hallway, completely unaware of the steps ahead. She almost tripped on a loose tile, her papers spilling from the folder under her arm. I opened my mouth to call out.

"Nat—"

Just as I was about to call out, a tall, slender guy rushed in from the other side. He wore a Georgia Bulldogs hoodie and moved fast—faster than I ever could with my tired legs and heavier heart. His name tag read "Derek Lin," one of the grad students in her lab. Natalie landed on top of him, a tangle of limbs and apologies.

Natalie’s lips landed on the corner of the guy’s mouth, her body pressed flush against his. It was painfully cinematic, the kind of thing that would make my mom's book club swoon. Derek’s face went red as a cherry tomato, but he cracked a nervous joke as he helped Natalie up, "Guess we just redefined a rough morning, huh?"

Natalie’s cheeks flamed red, and she scrambled to gather her papers, mumbling apologies as Derek tried to help. The embarrassment was written all over her face—she wouldn’t meet my eyes, her hands shaking as she stuffed the last of her notes back in her bag.

It was like a scene straight out of a teen drama on Netflix. I watched, frozen in place, half waiting for the laugh track. Even the way Natalie brushed her hair back and mumbled "sorry" sounded scripted.

At the same time, the barrage scrolled wildly:

"Ahhh, they kissed!"

"Wuwuwu, Derek really loves the leading lady—his hands are all red from the impact."

"Heh, from now on it’s his turn to bump into the leading lady. I still remember the original line: ‘The two bodies collided unexpectedly, and both felt a tremor rise from deep within... At midnight, Natalie remembered the hardness pressed against her lower abdomen, and melted into a pool of spring water.’"

The words swirled in the air, mocking me, narrating my worst fears like a Greek chorus. I wanted to shout at them to shut up, but I was the only one who could see them.

My feet were rooted to the spot, and even from afar I could see the flush on Natalie’s face. She looked embarrassed, but she didn't pull away. Derek's hands hovered awkwardly at her waist, and the whole world seemed to slow down for a moment.

The barrage... was telling the truth. It was undeniable, no matter how badly I wanted to pretend otherwise.

Especially one floating comment: "Advice for the leading lady: stop resisting and surrender, or you’ll get shocked every day. Derek is your only cure."

That one stung my eyes. It echoed in my mind, cruel and insistent. I blinked hard, willing the words away, but they lingered.

Shocked every day. I imagined Natalie’s pain, her face twisted in agony, and the thought of it happening over and over made me sick. I turned away, fighting the urge to punch the wall.

I took one last look at Natalie, then turned and left. I shoved my hands in my pockets, head down, walking fast as if I could outrun the ache in my chest. The morning air tasted sharp, and I realized I was gritting my teeth so hard my jaw ached.

"Sis, I’ll accept the direct PhD spot at the Ivy League school."

My phone was slippery in my sweaty hand. I dialed Marissa, my cousin, and barely managed to get the words out. The promise felt heavy, final, like signing away an entire chapter of my life.

On the other end of the line, my cousin’s voice shot up with excitement. She shrieked so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. "You’ve finally figured it out? Dr. Franklin will be so happy he’ll jump for joy!"

I curled my lips, but there was no smile in my eyes. I watched my own reflection in the dark glass of a storefront, seeing the exhaustion and emptiness staring back. It didn’t feel like victory. It felt like losing—like I was leaving part of myself behind in Savannah.

In the days that followed, I drafted a breakup text, quickly took care of all the paperwork for going abroad, and didn’t tell Natalie a thing. The text sat unsent in my drafts for days, rewritten and deleted a dozen times. I filled out visa forms, updated my resume, boxed up my life in a series of brown cardboard containers with U-Haul printed on the side.

She kept trying to contact me, but I brushed her off with cold excuses. Later, I moved into a hotel, just waiting for the day of my departure. I let her calls go to voicemail, replied to her texts with "Sorry, busy" or "At work, can’t talk." Each time her name popped up on my screen, I felt a fresh jolt of guilt, but I forced myself to keep the distance. The hotel room was sterile, the walls a bland beige, but at least there I could be alone with my thoughts—and my regret.

One night, I sat in the darkness, thumb hovering over the glowing screen of my phone. One tap, and she’d know everything. But I just couldn’t do it. Not yet.