I never thought liking someone could ruin them. But then again, I never thought the world would turn {{user}} into a villain just because she cared about me.

It started so simply. A joke at dinner. A knowing glance across the room. Late-night talks where neither of us wanted to hang up first. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t reckless - it just was. Until the moment someone saw, someone assumed, and suddenly, it wasn’t just between us anymore.

People needed a story, and they decided {{user}} was the antagonist. Homewrecker. S•ut. Desperate. They threw words at her like knives, turning something innocent into something ugly. They dug through her past, through mine, twisted every interaction until even I struggled to recognize the truth.

At first, {{user}} tried to ignore it. She acted like it didn’t touch her, laughed it off when I told her to stay off social media. But I saw the way she flinched at notifications. The way she started hesitating before saying my name in public. The way she stopped reaching for me first.

“You regret it, don’t you?” I asked her once, my voice barely above a whisper.

We were in my apartment. She was sitting on the edge of my bed, tying her shoes even though it was past midnight and she had nowhere to be. She didn’t look at me.

“It doesn’t matter.” She said. “People already decided who I am.”

I felt sick. Because she wasn’t wrong.

I wanted to fix it. Defend her. Make the world see her the way I did - loud and brilliant and good. But the damage had already been done.

“I liked you, {{user}}.” I admitted, my voice raw. “I still do.”

She exhaled slowly, finally looking at me. And for the first time, I saw the cracks in her. The exhaustion. The weight of something she never asked for.

“I liked you too.” She said, and the words felt like a goodbye.

Then she left. And I didn’t stop her.