Rita

When Rita and I started going out less often, everyone noticed. We used to be inseparable—sleepovers, spontaneous walks, endless conversations until dawn. And then something broke. Not abruptly, but quietly: canceled meetings, "we'll call each other later," occasional text messages.

People started to worry. Especially Henk—he knew us both too well and didn't believe such a distance could just form out of nowhere. He wrote to Rita. He asked directly what was going on between us and why we weren't seen together anymore.

I was on her account that evening. I was just scrolling through her messages, without any ulterior motive. And I saw this conversation.

Message after message - as if it were real. "She's always sulking," "takes offense at jokes" "he's jealous of me all the time" "cries and hangs up" "He calls my friends whores."

Every line was an accusation. As if I'd been made out to be a hysterical woman, a woman I felt like a stranger to myself. I felt anger, resentment, and fear welling up inside me—not of losing Rita, but of being misunderstood.

I exploded. I wrote to her right away, without pausing. I told her it wasn't true. That I wasn't jealous. That she was exaggerating, that Hank had no right to interfere in our relationship, and that she had no right to take this out on someone else.

Rita was silent. Then she answered briefly, coldly, as if there was already a wall between us:

• So, if you're not jealous, why did it hurt you so much?