I told myself the first move had to be small. Surgical. Not some loud, dumb tantrum that ends with me in headlines and in handcuffs. So I went for a nick — a tiny, precise cut meant to let the bleeding start slow and quiet.
First, I needed to know what would make Arjun flinch. Guys like him—smooth, careful—hate exposure. They live in the safe light of plausible deniability. Take that away, and they panic. So I made a plan that was cowardly and brilliant at the same time: anonymous, public enough to sting, private enough not to scream.
I sat in my car outside the office for a good hour, phone in my lap, watching people spill into the building like ants. I wrote the message five times, deleted it, rewrote it. My thumb hovered over send like a preacher about to sin. The words had to be right—no melodrama, no threats, just a cold fact to prick their life. Something like: "You're not as careful as you think. I have pictures." Plain. Vague. Poisonous.
Then I did something else. I created a fake profile—old photo, neutral name, nothing traceable. You'd be surprised how easy it is to exist as someone else online for five minutes. I sent the message to Arjun's Instagram DM and then, because I was greedy for damage, I sent the same to one of her friends who always liked her photos and who loved gossip like oxygen. The friend's handle blinked and then—nothing. I felt my stomach twist. Did I go too far? Was I about to watch people I cared about turn into monsters? Too late now. Hit send. Fuck it.
I waited. Waiting is the worst drug. It stretches time into something viscous. I stared at my phone like it might cough up answers. Nothing. God, the silence. I wanted to curse until my throat bled, but I held back. Control, remember? Control.
An hour later, my phone buzzed. Arjun had read the message. The little blue dot told me everything: read. Then, three dots appeared—typing. My heart did something ugly, a lurch I didn't like. The reply was short, almost annoyed: "Who is this?" I almost cheered at the boredom in his words. He sounded like a man who was still certain he could handle whatever small heat came his way.
Then the friend's account responded in a different way—loud, thin, theatrical. "WTF? Pics? Send." That made me breathe. She wanted proof. She wanted the show. Good. That's the kind of person who will fold when pressed in public. I didn't reply to her. I let her hunger do the work.
Arjun answered again, this time defensive: "Stop playing games. If this is some joke, not cool." He tried to scare me. He tried to be the bully. I almost sent him back a photo—one of the ones I'd taken through the door—but I didn't. Not yet. The point is to make them sweat, not to drown them with evidence. Make the other person think their neat life is unsteady. When they start to look around for leaks, they make mistakes.
Then something else happened. A notification from a different friend popped up—her cousin, the one I'd once seen laughing at a wedding. She'd forwarded the message to a small group chat, scribbling: "Is this about D? Someone sending pics?" God, how small the world is when it's gossip. I watched as the tiny bubble of curiosity spread. That was the point. That little itch in people's heads would push them to act. People are curious animals; you prod them and they spring traps on themselves.
I felt filthy and powerful in the same second. It's a dizzying mix. The pictures on my phone felt like poison I'd bottled—deadly and controlled. I sat back, lightless, watching the dominoes I'd nudged quiver. Would they fall into place? Would Arjun squirm? Would she get wind of this through some friend and start to stitch a defense?
The worst part: every click of my phone made me think of her face. The face that used to be my sunrise now looked like a mask I could poke through. I tried not to imagine her reading an anonymous message and feeling—what? Fear? Guilt? Scorn? The psychology is basic: being watched makes liars confess or make sloppy moves. That's when you strike.
Night came and the chat lit up more—people whispering, asking, forwarding. Arjun sent a blunt, angry voice note asking who I was. I played it cool, let the silence sit. I wasn't a wrecking ball. I was an architect, at least that's what I told myself as the city lights outside my window blurred.
By the time I turned the car off, little bubbles of doubt were floating through their lives. I hadn't yet shown the proof. I had only hinted. That tease felt cruel and divine. Small cuts hurt and leave scars that itch forever. I liked that.
As I walked up to my apartment, the air felt different—dense, expectant. My mind was a pinwheel of possibilities. The plan had started. The first little cut had been made. Now all I could do was wait and watch the infection spread. And if they fought back—if she tried to shield him or call me insane—I'd have the camera. I'd have the facts. I'd be cold.
I unlocked the door and paused for a second, fingers on the handle, listening for the old warmth that used to greet me. Nothing. Silence. Then I whispered to the empty room, not sure who I was scaring: "Welcome home, stranger."