I read his message twice. A man who had proposed to my live-in girlfriend while she was still telling me she loved me was offering advice about privacy. I typed a reply that would have been satisfying for approximately eight seconds and deleted it. Then I wrote, "Minerva agreed to move out voluntarily last night with police present. Her belongings are being held for pickup. Please communicate about those through her, not through me."
Landon answered almost immediately. "She shouldn't have to leave just because you can't handle losing."
I set the phone facedown and went to make coffee. That was the first thing I understood about what was coming: there would be people who believed whatever story Minerva told them, and I could not possibly spend my life debating every one of them. I needed records, boundaries, and a reliable way to distinguish a real problem from somebody else's attempt to pull me back into an argument. It sounded simple written out. In the kitchen, with the candle wax still clinging to the table, it was surprisingly difficult.
At work I told my supervisor, Nina, that I'd had a breakup and might need some flexibility for appointments. Nina was one of those people who never asked for more private information than necessary. She said she could move a scheduled review if I needed it and asked whether I felt safe at home. The question caught me off guard. I told her I did, then realized the answer was only mostly true.
By midmorning, my coworkers had begun receiving screenshots from Minerva's social media. She had posted a video describing herself as a survivor of emotional abuse, saying that the man she used to live with had called police because she refused to apologize for finding real love. The video had the soft lighting she favored and a caption about choosing herself. What she did not mention was that she had been living with the supposed abusive ex while dating and becoming engaged to another man.
I knew strangers online would draw conclusions from whatever thirty seconds they saw. What bothered me was that she had tagged my personal account and included enough information about my workplace to invite other people into the dispute. I asked her by text to remove identifying references. She sent back a string of laughing emojis and told me I couldn't silence her truth. I saved the messages and took screenshots before muting the conversation.
My friend Jonah called during lunch. We'd known each other since college and worked in different departments of the same company. He listened while I described the dinner, interrupted only to ask whether I'd eaten anything, and then said, "Patrick, you sound like someone who has been trying to stay polite while the house is on fire." I told him that was dramatic. He asked whether the metaphor was less dramatic than my girlfriend announcing another engagement beside my favorite plates. I admitted he had a point.