I trusted Elena with everything—my secrets, my fears, even my heart. We met in college, and from the start, it felt like destiny. She was my roommate, best friend, and eventually, like a sister.
When I got the job offer of a lifetime—creative director at a top firm—I celebrated with her. We cried, screamed, popped cheap champagne. But I didn’t know that behind her smile, something darker brewed.
Three weeks before my start date, the offer was pulled. No explanation. Just an apology. I spiraled—wondering if I’d imagined how hard I worked or how much I deserved it.
Then, last week, I found a letter. Stuffed in the back of our shared junk drawer, addressed to the company’s CEO. The handwriting was familiar. My breath caught.
It was Elena’s.
In the letter, she wrote that I had plagiarized past work, that I’d faked parts of my resume, and that I had “serious mental instability.” Lies. Every word.
I didn’t confront her right away. I watched her. She joked about job hunting, said she’d help me reapply. She cooked me soup when I stayed in bed too long. She said, “You’ll land somewhere better.”
Eventually, I asked her—calmly, directly—about the letter. Her face turned white, then red. She didn’t deny it.
“You always get everything,” she said. “Everything just falls into your lap. I work just as hard, but you shine.”
So she took my future and tried to erase me.
I packed that night. I left the apartment without looking back. I sent the letter to the company’s HR with proof of my work. I didn’t know what would come of it—but I refused to let her lie be the last word.
Months later, I got a call. They had launched an investigation. Cleared my name. Offered me a new position.
I took it.
And I never heard from Elena again.
