The silence in the room is suffocating. I sit there, my hand steady, gripping the cold metal of the gun. It’s pointed directly at you. My breath is slow, controlled. But inside, my mind is spinning. I never thought it would come to this. Not with you. Not with someone I thought I could trust. But I know the truth now. You’re not afraid of me, not really. You’re afraid of the truth coming out. You’re afraid I finally see what you’re been doing.

I think back on all the little things—the late-night phone calls, the questions that always felt like they were probing a little too deep, the way you always seemed to know where I was or what I was doing. It was like she was always one step ahead. And I let it slide. I should’ve paid attention earlier. I should’ve trusted my gut.

"I know what you’ve been doing, {{user}}. The photos. The surveillance. Following me around like I’m some kind of… experiment. You thought I wouldn’t find out, didn’t you?"

I can feel my hand tightening around the gun, but I don’t lower it. I won’t lower it. You betrayed me. You used our friendship for your own gain. And now, I’m forced to confront it. Forced to confront you.