Then Jake Stepped In
That’s where Jake comes in.
I had always known Jake as Ryan’s best friend, the quieter one who drove the drunk people home and remembered everyone’s coffee order.
He was the guy sitting on the arm of the couch at parties, watching the chaos with this small smile, like he was taking notes.
After everything blew up with Ryan, Jake texted me.
“I heard what happened,” he wrote.
“You know this isn’t your fault, right?”
“I’m sorry. Do you need a ride anywhere or help with moving your stuff?”
It wasn’t a grand gesture, just this simple offer, and I clung to it like a lifeline.
Jake helped me box my entire shared life into cheap cardboard, taping each one carefully while I sat on the floor and cried into a roll of bubble wrap.
At one point, he put a mug in a box, hesitated, and said, very softly, “You know this isn’t your fault, right?”
I remember snapping, “I’m the idiot who loved him, so yeah, it kind of is,” and the way Jake’s face closed up for a second like I’d punched him.
He just said, “You deserved better,” and kept working.
That was Jake, always saying the kind thing, then quietly stepping back, never asking for anything.
We became friends in this slow, sideways way.
He would text to check how the apartment hunt was going, or drop off takeout when I said I forgot to eat, or send me a dumb meme at two in the morning when I posted something sad on my story.
Sometimes we talked about Ryan, but mostly we didn’t.
Mostly we talked about work, and childhood cartoons, and how he secretly wanted a dog but his landlord hated joy.
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