Me and my BFL were getting our nails done when she asked, “What’s your love language?” I smiled, “Probably touch. I love feeling a man’s hands around my waist.”

She turned to me with disgust. “You [__] slut.”

Before I could respond, she stormed out of the salon with her nails only half done. Like, what in the actual hell?

I figured maybe she was having issues with her man or something. But when I FaceTimed her, she hung up straight away and blocked me on everything. Even her mom blocked me. Her mom.

I ran back to my apartment trying not to cry. My roommate took one look at me and literally sprinted to her room.

Click.

She locked her door.

“Sarah, is everything okay in there?”

Nothing.

That’s when my phone buzzed.

Texts. Messages from unknown numbers.

“Mia, my ex BFL, told me you were looking for some fun. HMU.” and “Dale Mamasa. Don’t be shy.”

More texts poured in. Girls from my classes were calling me a homewrecker. A hoe. Screenshots of group chats planning to expose me.

It felt like the world was playing some sort of cruel prank on me.

The morning after crying myself to sleep, my work manager pulled me aside. He wouldn’t even let me clock in.

“We heard about what happened. Can’t have that reputation here.” Fired, just like that.

Four days until rent was due and now I had no job.

I called my big sister, crying, because she always knew how to fix things. But the second I told her what happened, she went completely silent. The bad kind of silent.

“I can’t believe you said that.”

“Said what?” I was practically screaming into the phone.

“Just what exactly did you say when she asked about your love language?”

“That I love a man’s hands around me.”

“Oh my gosh.” She sounded disgusted. “I didn’t think you were that type of girl. Mia was right about you.”

“Ashley, what are you—”

Beep.

She hung up and she blocked me everywhere within minutes. My own sister.

I logged into my old Finsta with shaking hands and stalked Mia’s page. Every single photo of her boyfriend was deleted. They weren’t even following each other anymore.

Tuesday night, Sarah finally came out of her room dragging a suitcase.

“My parents don’t want me living with someone who… you know.” She couldn’t even look at me. “They saw the posts.”

“What posts?” I was basically screaming now.

She just shook her head and left.

No roommate meant double rent I couldn’t afford.

My life was imploding and I didn’t even know why.

For days, I couldn’t sleep. I tried everything. Showed up at Mia’s sorority house begging for answers.

“Stop playing dumb. You know what you did,” they said before slamming the door in my face.

By Wednesday, I was desperate. And if anyone knew what happened, it’d be Jake’s best friend, the horndog who always liked all my Instagram stories.

I waited until 2 a.m. to text him.

“You up?” In a second, he was practically begging me to come over.

I stared at myself in the mirror. Bodycon dress, push-up bra, lip gloss. I looked exactly like what everyone was calling me.

His apartment reeked of the devil’s lettuce. I did shots I didn’t want and laughed at jokes that weren’t funny. By 4 a.m., his hands were all over me.

Bingo.

That’s when I forced myself to sound like I was out of breath.

“Wait, can we stop for a sec? What happened with Mia?”

Brad laughed, but not in a mean way. More like he felt sorry for me.

“You really don’t know about the test system?”

I shook my head.

Suddenly, he whipped out his big black iPhone and opened TikTok. It was a video with millions of views. The woman in the video was explaining how girls who say physical touch has no boundaries, they’re 73% more likely to steal taken men.

My blood went ice cold as the realization hit me.

Mia knew her man was on some sneaky shit and she thought I was the other woman.

“Mia tested all her friends. You were the only one who said physical touch.” Brad was slurring, but I caught every word. “She screenshot your answer and sent it to everyone. Said you literally admitted you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

I felt like I was going to throw up.

Brad laughed. “She sent a screenshot saying you were desperate to be touched by anyone who’d have you. She made this whole group chat called Easy Target with your photos and number. My boys have been passing it around since Saturday, thinking you’re down for whoever.”

I stood up to leave. My phone had recorded everything from my purse.

Brad grabbed my wrist hard. “Where are you going, chica? You said we’d continue.”

I yanked away. “I got what I came for.”

His face twisted ugly. “You really are a manipulative [__] like Mia said.”

I looked him dead in the eyes.

I had 48 hours until I’d be homeless.

But Mia and Brad? They had 24 hours before their entire world imploded. And by the time I was done, they’d be begging for the days when their biggest worry was a failed TikTok test.

I walked out of Brad’s building into the cold morning air, and my hands were shaking so badly that I could barely hold my phone. The second I got to my car, I locked the doors and pulled up the voice recorder app.

There it was: 43 minutes of audio, with Brad’s confession right in the middle.

I played back the part where he talked about the Easy Target group chat, and my stomach turned, but at least I had proof now. I forwarded the file to three different email accounts: my personal one, my old school email, and a backup Gmail I made just for this. Then I uploaded it to Google Drive, Dropbox, and iCloud because I wasn’t taking any chances with this evidence disappearing.

My battery was at 12%, so I plugged in my car charger and sat there in the parking lot, making sure every upload went through.

Back at my apartment, I locked myself in the bathroom and sat on the cold tile floor with a notebook I found under the sink. My hand was still shaking as I wrote down everything I needed to do.

Secure all evidence was already done. Finding legal help was next. Figure out the rent situation. Clear my name somehow. Get my job back, maybe.

The list kept growing, and I felt sick looking at it, but at least having a plan made me feel less crazy.

I opened my banking app, and the number made me want to throw up.

$842 in checking, 200 in savings. Rent was 1,500, and I’d already spent my last paycheck on groceries and gas. Even if I drained everything and sold stuff, I’d only have maybe half.

The late fee was another hundred after 5 days, and then eviction proceedings would start. My credit would be ruined for 7 years if that happened.

The apartment portal loaded slowly on my phone, but finally showed the payment screen. Rent is due in 4 days with a 5-day grace period before they can file an eviction.

I screenshotted everything, including the lease terms and tenant rights section. At least I knew exactly how much time I had to figure this out. Nine days total before they could legally kick me out.

I called my old manager at the coffee shop and left a voicemail trying to sound calm and professional.

“Hi, Mark, it’s me. There’s been a huge misunderstanding about what happened. I really need this job and I can explain everything if you just give me 5 minutes.”

I hung up and called again 20 minutes later, this time sounding more desperate.

“Mark, please. I’m about to lose my apartment and this is all based on lies. Just call me back.”

The third call, I was basically crying into the phone.

“I know you probably hate me, but I swear I didn’t do anything wrong, and I have proof now. Please.”

I texted him the basic facts about the setup, but the message just sat there undelivered, not even read.

I opened Instagram and started typing out this long post with all the screenshots and timestamps of what really happened, how Mia tested me with that stupid question, how she made up lies about me, how Brad admitted to the group chat—but then I stopped and deleted everything.

They’d just twist whatever I said and make it worse.

Plus, if I were going to use that recording legally, I probably shouldn’t post it online first.

I found Jake’s number and sent him a text asking if we could talk about what really happened with him and Mia. Within seconds, he replied, “Leave me alone, you psycho.” And then I couldn’t send any more messages. He’d blocked me just like everyone else.

So much for getting his side of the story or finding out what Mia was really mad about.

I Googled “free legal help” in my area and found a legal aid clinic that did consultations for students. The website said they helped with harassment and defamation cases. I filled out their online form and picked the earliest appointment slot, which was tomorrow morning at 9:00 with someone named Orly Ferrara.

Having an actual lawyer’s appointment made me feel slightly less helpless, even though I had no idea if they could actually help.

Then I remembered Paige Swift from the campus newspaper, who always wrote about controversial stuff and scandals. She’d covered that whole thing with the professor last year. I found her email and sent her everything.

At the exact second I sent the email, my laptop turned black. I screamed and slammed my fists on the desk as it tried to restart.

Nothing.

When the system finally booted again, my screen was filled with warnings about a critical error. My heart pounded as I realized what happened. The blog post and all the attached screenshots were gone.

Every file I’d meticulously collected, every message, and every timestamp.

Gone.

I sat there in shock staring at the blank folder where my proof used to be.

Give me a minute.

Typing this out fried my brain for a second.

Next time I’ll tell you exactly how I dragged Mia and Brad into the pit they dug for me.

––––––

Me and my BFL were getting our nails done when she asked, “What’s your love language?” I smiled, “Probably touch. I love feeling a man’s hands around my waist.”

She turned to me with disgust.

“You [__] slut.”

Before I could respond, she stormed out of the salon with her nails only half done.

Like, what in the actual hell?

I figured maybe she was having issues with her man or something. But when I FaceTimed her, she hung up straight away and blocked me on everything. Even her mom blocked me. Her mom.

I ran back to my apartment trying not to cry. My roommate took one look at me and literally sprinted to her room.

Click.

She locked her door.

“Sarah, is everything okay in there?”

Nothing.

That’s when my phone buzzed.

Texts. Messages from unknown numbers.

“Mia, my ex BFL told me you were looking for some fun. HMU.” and “Dale Mamasa. Don’t be shy.”

More texts poured in. Girls from my classes are calling me a homewrecker. A hoe. Screenshots of group chats planning to expose me.

It felt like the world was playing some sort of cruel prank on me.

The morning after crying myself to sleep, my work manager pulled me aside. He wouldn’t even let me clock in.

“We heard about what happened. Can’t have that reputation here.” Fired, just like that.

Four days until rent was due and now I had no job.

I called my big sister crying because she always knew how to fix things. But the second I told her what happened, she went completely silent. The bad kind of silent.

“I can’t believe you said that.”

“Said what?” I was practically screaming into the phone.

“Just what exactly did you say when she asked about your love language?”

“That I love a man’s hands around me.”

“Oh my gosh.” She sounded disgusted. “I didn’t think you were that type of girl. Mia was right about you.”

“Ashley, what are you—”

Beep.

She hung up, and she blocked me everywhere within minutes.

My own sister.

I logged into my old Finsta with shaking hands and stalked Mia’s page. Every single photo of her boyfriend was deleted. They weren’t even following each other anymore.

Tuesday night, Sarah finally came out of her room拖