Part 3: The Final Act: Untangling Lies in the Wake of Chaos

It’s Sunday, and I am a cocktail of emotions—sadness, anger, disbelief—shaken, not stirred. I can't keep riding this emotional rollercoaster, so I reach out to him, insisting he owes me a conversation. After all, we've only been communicating via text, which, let’s face it, is the coward’s way out. To my surprise (and to his credit), he offers to meet me in town the next day.

When we meet, I’m taken aback by how small and sad he looks. The man who was once larger than life now seems... diminished, deflated. But I didn’t come here for sympathy—I came armed with a list of his lies, desperate for the truth. So, I start ticking them off one by one, like I’m cross-examining him in a courtroom drama. But the truth? It never shows up. Instead, I get more of the same—spin, half-truths, dodges, and deflections.

He’s squirming in his seat, clearly agitated, as if he’s the one being wronged here. I’m starting to realize he’s incapable of honesty—or of seeing himself as anything other than the victim in this twisted tale. And then, just when I think this surreal encounter can’t get any weirder, we stand to part ways. And what does he do? He shakes my hand.

Yes, shakes my hand! Like we’ve just concluded a business meeting. Here’s the man who, days earlier, told me he wanted to build a life with me, now treating me like a client he’s parting ways with. It’s the final slap in the face—the handshake that seals the end of whatever this was.

The next day, it finally hits me—like a wave that knocks you off your feet when you least expect it. I’m an emotional wreck, torn between hating him and desperately missing him. How can I miss someone who betrayed me so completely? But I do. The man I spoke to every single day for three months, the one who sent me "good morning" texts, midday check-ins, and "goodnight" phone calls—the man who, for a short time, was my person. I miss sharing my day, my thoughts, my life. Yet my logical brain is in constant battle with my emotions, screaming, "You know the truth! You have the evidence!" But that doesn’t make it easier.

To top it all off, I have to keep it together for work, plastering on a professional face when inside, I’m a mess. In a way, I’m thankful for the distraction—my busy job is the only thing keeping me afloat, forcing me to focus on something, anything, other than him.

Then Tuesday afternoon rolls around, and my phone vibrates. It’s a message from an ABC journalist. My stomach drops. She’s been talking to some of the other women, and now she wants to speak to me. I feel sick. When will this nightmare end? I politely decline—not to protect him, but because revenge won’t give me peace. I just want to be free of him, of all of this.

I sit there, phone in hand, wondering, *How is this my life?* I dated someone, and now I’m dodging calls from the media. It’s surreal, and all I can think is, I wish I’d never met him.

The weeks that have followed have been a whirlwind of confusion. I still miss the man I thought he was, yet I know that version of him never existed—he was a façade, a carefully crafted lie. I’ve tried so hard every day to maintain no contact, resisting the urge to reach out. But then, my nan passed away. I was home alone, oceans away from my family, drowning in grief. In a moment of weakness, I craved the comforting voice of the person I once cared about, so I texted him. He called me that afternoon to check in.

For a brief moment, it felt good. It felt like a return to that “fake him,” the one who pretended to care. But afterward, I was ashamed—ashamed that I fell for it again, like an addict chasing a hit they know will destroy them. I knew better.

That was the last time we spoke. Since then, the more I’ve talked about what happened, the more I’ve realized just how twisted those three months were. Just the other day, I was listening to a podcast with a psychologist who explained the early stages of coercive control—the constant disruptions to plans, the "emergencies," the last-minute cancellations that keep you on edge, never allowing you to settle into the relationship. And it hit me. *That’s what he was doing to me.* Along with the love-bombing and the endless future faking, he kept me in a constant state of uncertainty.

I know now I dodged a bullet, and I’m grateful that I woke up after three months, not 12 or longer. I still have moments where I ruminate over the details, the “what ifs” that don’t even matter anymore. But I’m also proud of how far I’ve come. I’ve done the work on myself, and it’s that work that gave me the strength to walk away when I did.

Right now, it feels like he’s robbed me of my hope, but I know I’ll get it back. And through it all, my greatest source of love and support has been my girlfriends, who’ve rallied around me, mending my heart piece by piece.