Chapter 2: The Lies That Saved Me

My hands shook uncontrollably as I held her phone. I recognized every word. But seeing them all together? It was like reading a foreign language.

It was like the words rearranged the world I thought I knew—like the floor had dropped out from under me and I was still waiting to hit bottom. My throat felt tight, like I’d swallowed a mouthful of sand.

After photographing all the messages, I put her phone back where I found it. Then I collapsed onto the couch, lost and numb.

The air felt thick and heavy, pressing down on my chest. I stared at the ceiling, the edges of my vision blurring. I wanted to scream, but all that came out was a dry, shuddering breath.

Was this really the Savannah I knew? When she was chasing me, I’d told her I was seven years younger and not interested in dating older women.

I remembered her laugh, the way she’d brushed off my worries, promising that age was just a number. She’d seemed so genuine, so determined to prove everyone wrong.

At the time, I’d just been cheated on, had no job, and my future looked hopeless. Hopeless. Everyone in my little hometown of Newark, Ohio was waiting to see me fail.

The memory of those days still stung. My phone barely rang, my parents whispered in the kitchen, and every trip to the gas station felt like a walk of shame. Savannah swept in like a summer storm—loud, unapologetic, and impossible to ignore.

She went all out to win me over. I was insecure, so she checked in with me constantly. When I said I wouldn’t do long distance, she transferred to my company. She even taught me how to navigate the workplace.

She’d pack me lunch, send me goofy memes—like that one of the cat in a tie, or a dancing hotdog—and sit with me late into the night, talking about everything and nothing: old movies, her childhood, my dumbest fears. She made the world feel less hostile, like maybe I wasn’t doomed to be the town’s favorite cautionary tale.

She came to me with such sincerity that I couldn’t help but fall for her.

She’d look me in the eyes and say things that made me feel seen. Really seen. For the first time in years. I let myself believe it all—the affection, the promises, the future she painted in broad, bright strokes.

She was a wildcat, so I made sure to satisfy her anytime, anywhere. She liked excitement, so I went and got a surgical implant and some enhancement work done, just to keep up.

I went along with her wild ideas, even the ones that made me nervous. I told myself this was what love looked like—pushing past your comfort zone, doing whatever it took to make her happy. Wasn’t that what love was? I didn’t realize I was chipping away at myself, piece by piece.

But we were both afraid something would go wrong. So she insisted I get a vasectomy, promising we’d get married after.

I wanted a home of my own so badly. I thought she wanted the same thing.

I imagined us picking out furniture, fighting over paint colors, building a life that was ours. I clung to that vision, blind to the cracks forming beneath it.

Turns out, all that warmth and salvation was just because she couldn’t bear to touch the one she truly cared about. So she used me to satisfy herself.

Looking at the vasectomy report in my hand, I realized what a complete fool I’d been.

My fingers tightened around the paper, the words swimming in and out of focus. I’d given up so much, and for what? I felt hollow. Like I’d been emptied out and left behind.