Sweet Hatred Chapter 394: The Truth

I lost my virginity to a man who was fantasizing about my best friend. I just didn’t know it yet.

The first month with Cain felt like more solid proof that I could be normal. That I could have sothing uncomplicated and good, sothing that belonged to alone.

He’d take to cheap restaurants off campus, the kind with plastic nus and fluorescent lighting. He’d ask about my classes, my day, actually listen when I answered. He’d hold my hand walking back to my dorm, kiss goodnight with this careful sweetness that made feel fragile in a way I’d never been before.

"You’re different from other girls," he told once.

I didn’t ask what he ant. I was just grateful to be different in a way that made soone want .

When he asked if I was ready, two months into dating... I said yes. Not because I particularly wanted to, but because this was what normal couples did. This was what progression looked like. And I wanted so badly to be normal.

It happened in his dorm room on a Tuesday night. His roommate was gone for the weekend. He’d put on music, dimd the lights, all the things he probably thought would make it romantic.

It hurt. He apologized. Said it would get better. I believed him because I didn’t know any different.

Afterward, lying in his narrow twin bed, his arm around , I thought: This is what normal feels like.

I was wrong.

---

It was three weeks later when it happened.

We were in his room again. His roommate was out at a party. We were having sex, I still couldn’t quite think of it as "making love" even though that’s what he called it sotis. I was going through the motions, making the sounds I thought I was supposed to make, waiting for it to be over.

He finished with a groan, his face buried in my neck.

"Oh," he moaned. "Fuck, Aria..."

Everything stopped.

He went rigid against , pulled back, his face cycling through expressions too fast to track. Shock. Horror. Calculation.

"Fuck. Sarah, I’m sorry. I was just—I don’t know why I said that. It didn’t an anything. I was just—"

He kept talking, words tumbling over each other, excuses stacking up like blocks. But I wasn’t listening anymore. I was sowhere else, sowhere cold and distant, watching this scene from outside my body.

"I should go," he said finally, already pulling away, reaching for his clothes.

I didn’t stop him.

He left. The door clicked shut. I lay there in his sheets that slled like him and sweat and sex, staring at the ceiling, completely still.

I didn’t cry. Crying would have required feeling sothing, and I felt nothing at all. Just a vast, empty quiet where sothing should have been.

He texted the next day. I’m so sorry. Can we talk?

I replied: It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.

Are you sure?

Yes.

And I was. Because whatever I’d thought we had, whatever fantasy I’d constructed about being chosen and wanted and normal... it had been built on sand. His slip hadn’t created a problem. It had just revealed the truth.

We kept dating.

He was more attentive after that, like he was overcompensating. More gifts, more complints, more public displays of affection. Look how much I care about Sarah. Look how into her I am.

I played along. Smiled when I was supposed to smile. Laughed at his jokes. Had sex when he wanted to.

But I was watching him now. Really watching. Looking for the cracks in his performance, the monts when the mask would slip.

It took two weeks.

We were in my dorm room this ti. My roommate had transferred schools, so I had the space to myself. We’d just finished, quick and perfunctory and Cain had fallen asleep almost imdiately after, sprawled on his stomach, one arm hanging off the bed.

I lay next to him, staring at his phone on the nightstand.

I’d watched him unlock it dozens of tis. Watched his fingers move in a specific pattern. Six digits. I’d morized them without aning to, the sa way I morized everything about people.

2-7-4-9-1-3.

I picked up the phone. The screen lit up. I typed in the code.

It unlocked.

I should have felt guilty. Should have felt like I was violating his privacy, crossing so line. But all I felt was cold, clinical curiosity. I needed to know. Needed to confirm what I already suspected.

I opened his ssages, found the group chat with his friends. Five guys, all from his high school. They talked constantly, s, sports scores, complaints about classes.

I typed my na into the search bar.

Eighteen results.

I started reading.

October 15th

Cain: so I’m making progress with Sarah

Kyle: the weird quiet chick?

Cain: yeah. she’s friends with Aria. super close.

Kyle: ohhhhh I see what you’re doing

Cain: yeah she’s like the key. Aria won’t give the ti of day directly but if I’m dating her best friend...

Marcus: dude that’s genius

Cain: right? and honestly Sarah’s not bad. easy to deal with. grateful for the attention

October 28th

Cain: update: I’m in

Kyle: YOU FUCKED HER?

Cain: lmao yeah. took her virginity too

Marcus: BRO

Kyle: was it weird?

Cain: little bit. she just kinda laid there. but whatever, I’m playing the long ga

Marcus: you’re getting pussy while plotting on Aria. respect.

November 3rd

Kyle: how’s operation get with Aria going

Cain: slow. but I’m being patient. Sarah trusts now. Aria sees us together all the ti. just gotta wait for her to break up with that senior

Marcus: you think she’s hot enough to go through all this?

Cain: dude yes. you’ve seen her. and she’s got this whole thing where she doesn’t take shit from anyone. I want to see what she’s like in bed

Kyle: anwhile you’re stuck with the weird one lol

Cain: honestly sotis when I’m fucking Sarah I just think about Aria. like I’ll close my eyes and pretend

Marcus: LMAOOO

Cain: I’m serious.

Kyle: you’re going to hell

Cain: worth it

---

I read all eighteen results. Every joke. Every casual dismissal. Every confirmation that I was exactly what I’d always been, a tool. A ans to an end. The thing people used to get to what they actually wanted.

I set the phone back on the nightstand, exactly where he’d left it.

Then I lay back down next to him and stared at the ceiling.

Sothing inside had gone very, very quiet.

Not loud. Not violent. Just silent. Like a door closing so softly you don’t hear it lock.

I acted normal for the next three days.

We got coffee. Went to class together. I let him kiss in public, hold my hand, perform the role of devoted boyfriend. I smiled and nodded and said all the right things.

But inside, I was planning.

Not consciously, not at first. But ideas kept surfacing, scenarios playing out in my head. What I could do. What I should do. What would be satisfying versus what would be smart.

I told myself I just wanted to talk to him. To confront him about what I’d seen, hear him try to explain it away. That would be enough. That would be the mature, normal thing to do.

I almost believed it.

I went to his dorm on a Thursday afternoon. No text, no warning. His roommate’s class schedule was pinned to their door, I’d morized it weeks ago. He wouldn’t be back until six.

I climbed the stairs to the third floor, walked down the hallway that slled like stale beer and microwave popcorn.

His door was closed but I could hear sothing on the other side. A sound. Rhythmic. Breathing.

I tried the handle. Unlocked.

I pushed the door open gently and tiptoed into the little doorway.

Cain was on his bed, pants around his ankles, laptop open on his desk angled toward him. His right hand moved in steady strokes, his eyes fixed on the screen, his mouth slightly open.

"Aria..." he breathed. "Fuck, Aria..."

On the laptop screen: a photo. One I recognized because I’d taken it. Aria at the beach last sumr, wearing a blue bikini, laughing at sothing I’d said. I’d posted it to Instagram with so caption about friendship. She’d made it her profile picture.

He was staring at my best friend’s face while he touched himself in the room where he’d fucked . Saying her na like a prayer. Like she was the only thing that mattered.

Like I was nothing.

I stood there. Three seconds. Four. Five.

Watching him reduce to what I’d always been. The shadow of nothing. The tool he used to get close to the sun. The thing he tolerated in pursuit of what he actually wanted.

And sothing clarified.

Not broke. Not snapped. Just beca perfectly, crystalline clear.

Without making a sound, I walked to the kitchen area, every dorm room had one, a tiny alcove with a mini fridge and hot plate. My feet moved without conscious direction. My hand reached for the drawer, pulled it open.

Found the knife.

It was a cheap thing, probably from Target, with a black plastic handle. But the blade was sharp enough. He’d used it to cut vegetables when he made dinner for once. Played house. Pretended he cared.

I picked it up.

Walked out to the hallway again.

He still hadn’t noticed . Still had his eyes closed now, head tilted back, hand moving faster. Getting close.

"Aria," he moaned again. "God, you’re so hot..."

I moved.