My Best Friend Tried to Ruin My Relationship With Fake “Cheating” Videos—Then Two Years Later Her Mom Begged Me for Help

My Best Friend Tried to Ruin My Relationship With Fake “Cheating” Videos—Then Two Years Later Her Mom Begged Me for Help

My best friend secretly recorded a meeting with my boyfriend and sent me videos meant to frame him for che///ting.
When I begged her to stop, she laughed and leaned in close like she was sharing gossip, then whispered, “You’re just jealous. He’ll like me better.”

I didn’t say a word.
That was two years ago, and the silence I gave her wasn’t forgiveness—it was distance, sharp and final, the kind you don’t announce because you don’t want a debate.

Yesterday, her mom messaged me begging for help.
And I read that message with my phone held steady in my hand, feeling something old stir in my chest—the memory of who I used to be, and who Jasmine always needed me to stay.

I was always the d///mb, ugly, f///t friend, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
That’s what I told myself, anyway, back when it felt safer to wear that label than to fight it.

In high school, Jasmine didn’t just get all the guys she wanted—she got all the girls, too.
She was that kind of pretty, the kind that makes a hallway turn into a stage the second she walks through it.

Her blonde hair didn’t move, like it had signed some kind of contract with gravity.
She always smelled like Miss Dior, the soft expensive kind that lingered in the air after she passed, and she had a nice b///t that people pretended not to stare at.

So when Jasmine and I would go to the library together and guys only talked to me to try to get to her, I smiled and played along.
I’d be the friendly gatekeeper, the warm-up act, the one they tolerated because it got them closer to the main event.

When her Snapchat was full of unopened snaps from h///t guys while mine had team Snapchat and my mom, I was happy for her.
Not because she didn’t rub it in—she did, in small sharp ways that always felt like jokes until you realized you were the punchline.

Not because she didn’t see herself as better than me—she absolutely did.
But because if I had to pick one of us to be the ugly friend, I would choose me every time.

It made sense in my head then.
If someone had to be the one standing slightly behind, holding the purse, taking the bad lighting, I told myself I’d rather it be me.

Because even though Jasmine could be a bit of a pick-me, deep down I convinced myself she had a soft heart.
I told myself she needed the world to be kinder to her more than I did, like beauty was a fragility instead of a weapon.

There was just one thing that made me sad, and it wasn’t the attention she got.
It was how easily she believed attention was the same thing as love.

I knew she would rely on her looks like a ladder and never learn how to stand without it.
And when high school ended, my theory proved itself almost immediately.

I graduated with a 4.2 GPA, the kind of number that follows you into scholarships and job interviews and quiet rooms where people finally listen when you speak.
Meanwhile, the only reason Jasmine didn’t flunk out was because the creepy guidance counselor took a liking to her and somehow convinced teachers to grade her tests more kindly.

I remember sitting at graduation watching Jasmine laugh in her cap and gown, surrounded by people who acted like she’d earned every clap.
I told myself it didn’t matter, because life was long, because eventually effort would count more than a face.

I was actually surprised when she spent all summer working.
With the way the world treated her, making her own money seemed optional, like she could float from party to party and someone would always hand her what she wanted.

But when I visited her at her job, I realized her version of working was nothing like mine.
She got hired at the trendy boutique downtown where the manager took one look at her and said she’d be perfect for their “brand image.”

She stood behind the counter taking selfies between customers, smiling at her reflection more than the register screen.
People came in and acted like they were doing her a favor by pretending to shop, just so they could talk to her for a minute.

Meanwhile, I spent my summer doing data entry at my dad’s friend’s accounting firm.
Windowless office, cold fluorescent lights, numbers on numbers, the kind of work nobody would ever call me “perfect” for.

I’d go home with my eyes tired and my wrists sore and my brain buzzing with the dull ache of repetition.
And Jasmine would go home with free lip gloss samples and Instagram pictures in outfits she didn’t have to pay full price for.

The more we talked, the more obvious it became that we were starting to see the world through completely different lenses.
It got to the point where being around her didn’t just exhaust me—it made me feel like I was shrinking.

So I started distancing myself.
Not in a dramatic way, not with a confrontation, just with time and excuses and fewer replies until her name became something I saw more on my screen than in my life.

Eventually, I got most of my updates from her Instagram instead of our usual FaceTimes and texts.
And every time I checked, she seemed bigger, brighter, louder—like she was expanding into the space I’d left behind.

In six months, she went from three thousand followers to two hundred thousand.
Her comment sections were full of thirsty “amen” and fire emojis and men promising her the world in exchange for a reply.

She got free clothes from expensive brands, got invited to brand events, got flown to Coachella like she was a celebrity instead of a girl who used to borrow my lip balm in algebra class.
And I watched it all with a tight feeling in my chest I told myself was pride.

But I knew most of her new friends were probably using her the way people always had.
Not because they cared about Jasmine, but because she made them look cooler standing next to her.

So I kept leaving wholesome comments under her posts.
I kept sending her gift packages on her birthday—little things I knew she loved, like I could still be the person in her corner even if I wasn’t in her life.

I wanted her to know that someone out there—me—loved her for who she was, not just for her clout.
I didn’t realize how much I was still trying to earn a friendship that had always come with conditions.

Honestly, I thought I’d never see her again.
Then one day, I was twenty-eight.

By then, I was a well-established lawyer with my own place, the kind of apartment that felt like proof I’d built something solid.
I had a boyfriend who loved every inch of me unconditionally, and that kind of love felt so unfamiliar at first that it almost made me suspicious.

I guess all the milestones reminded me of graduating high school, of the way your past clings to you no matter how far you move.
Because one day, out of nowhere, I found myself reaching out to Jasmine again.

I told myself it was curiosity.
I told myself it was nostalgia.

But deep down, I think a part of me wanted to see if she’d changed.
I wanted to know if we could be friends without me playing the role of the lesser one.

Nothing beats someone from your past, people say.
Sometimes that’s true, and sometimes it’s just a pretty way of ignoring patterns.

We agreed to meet at the usual ice cream place where we used to spend our pocket money after school.
The sign was the same, the sticky tables were the same, and the air still smelled like waffle cones and sugar.

When I saw her walk in, it took everything in me not to show shock.
Her face was pumped with Botox, her lips looked swollen with filler, and she had on a pound of makeup that made her look like a polished version of herself instead of a person.

She hugged me like we were still sixteen, like time hadn’t happened.
Her arms felt careful around me, like she was hugging a memory more than a human being.

After the awkward, high-pitched “How are you?” dance, I cut to the chase.
Well, kind of.

I asked if she was working right now, trying to keep my tone casual.
She hesitated just long enough for me to notice, then gave a vague answer that sounded like she’d rehearsed it for people who asked too many questions.

I smiled anyway, because I had an ace up my sleeve.
And that ace was a job offer.

I told her I was looking for a secretary.
I told her I’d pay sixty-five thousand a year with benefits, because I knew stability was something she’d never bothered to build for herself.

For a second, she stared at me like she hadn’t heard correctly.
Then her expression twisted—not into gratitude, but into something offended.

“What do I look like to you?” she said, voice loud enough that the guy behind the counter glanced up.
“An effing charity case?”

I stared at her blankly, the way you stare when you realize you misjudged the entire room you walked into.
And Jasmine threw her plastic-filled head back and cackled like it was the funniest thing known to mankind.

It had been almost ten years.
There’s no way….

Continue in C0mment 👇👇

she was still like this. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt and continued.

Yeah, so you would have to start ASAP, but um she interrupted. Don’t you know I’m an influencer? She then took out her iPhone and showed me her page. She was gaining a new follower once every four months and all her DMs were from 3 years ago. That’s when I finally realized Jasmine wasn’t some misunderstood pretty girl. She was the washedup textbook definition of I peaked in high school.

I was about to walk away, but she stopped me. Hey, don’t be sad. With an A that flat, I would be a lawyer, too. I tried to make a beline to my car, but she literally ran in front of me and continued. Hey, so when do I get to meet your boyfriend? Or are you scared he’s going to like me better? Jasmine, I interrupted.

You built your whole identity on being the hot girl. Now you’re just expired goods that nobody wants. Now make like the sugar daddies that ghosted you and leave me alone. Finally, she froze in her tracks and left me alone. I didn’t realize it yet, but my comments had stung Jasmine, and she wanted to use them to ruin everything I had ever worked for.

Two weeks passed, and I thought that was the end of it. I went back to my normal routine. Work was busy with a big merger case. My boyfriend, Nathan, and I were planning a weekend trip. Life was good. Then one morning, my phone started blowing up. Text after text from co-workers. My boss called me into his office before I even got to my desk.

Someone had been posting screenshots all over social media, fake conversations where I supposedly admitted to cheating on the bar exam, where I bragged about bribing professors in law school. They tagged my firm and our biggest clients. My hands were shaking as I scrolled through the posts.

The account names were random, but I knew this was Jasmine. HR scheduled an emergency meeting for that afternoon. I spent hours gathering old transcripts and emails to prove the screenshots were fake. My boss believed me, but said we needed to handle this carefully. The firm’s reputation was on the line. That night, I noticed weird login attempts on my email, then my bank account.

Someone was trying to get in using old passwords. Security questions about my first pet’s name and my mother’s maiden name. Information Jasmine would know from high school. I changed every password I had. Added two-factor authentication to everything. called my bank to put extra security on my accounts.

Nathan helped me go through every online account I’d ever made. We stayed up until 3:00 a.m. making sure everything was locked down. But Jasmine wasn’t done. A week later, my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Chen, knocked on my door. She mentioned my sweet friend who’d been visiting. Described Jasmine perfectly. Said she was so happy I had such caring friends who wanted to surprise me.

My blood ran cold. Jasmine had been in my building talking to my neighbors, learning my schedule. Mrs. Chen had told her everything when I left for work. when Nathan stayed over. Even mentioned I usually grabbed coffee at the place downstairs on Saturdays. I tried to explain, but Mrs. Chen just smiled and patted my hand.

Said, “Young people always had drama.” The notes started showing up under my door the next day. Little pieces of paper with details only someone watching me would know. What I wore to work, what time I got home, mentions of the takeout I ordered. Nothing explicitly threatening, but the message was clear. She was watching. I installed a doorbell camera that weekend.

Sure enough, caught her on video slipping a note under my door at 2:00 a.m. But when I tried to file a report, she claimed she was just visiting Mrs. Chen. had been invited for tea. The building didn’t have rules against visiting residents. The security guard said his hands were tied. Then she got creative. Nathan started getting Instagram messages from a potential client.

Some woman who needed a logo designed for her new wellness brand offered to pay double his usual rate. He almost ignored it, but the money was too good. They set up a meeting at a coffee shop downtown. I found out later she showed up in a tiny dress, kept touching his arm, leaning in close, recording everything on her phone, hidden in her purse. Nathan shut it down immediately.

Told her he wasn’t interested and mentioned me. Left after 10 minutes. But that night, I got videos from a blocked number, edited clips that made it sound like Nathan was flirting back, his voice saying things like, “You look amazing.” and “I’d love to see you again.” Cut together from different parts of their short conversation.

In one clip, I could hear Jasmine giggling in the background. That fake high-pitched laugh I’d heard at the ice cream shop. Nathan was furious when I showed him. We sat down and watched the full recording he’d made on his phone for his records. The edits were so obvious when you saw the real conversation.

But if you only saw her version, it looked bad. We decided to handle this together. No police, no lawyers yet, just us against her. Maybe that was stupid, but I still remembered the girl who used to share her lunch with me when I forgot mine. The girl who held my hair back at parties. Some part of me hoped she’d stop on her own.

I was wrong. The next attack came at my career. A formal complaint filed with the State Bar Association, anonymous, of course, claiming I practiced law while hammered, that I’d been stealing from client trust accounts, serious allegations that triggered an automatic investigation. I had to hire my own lawyer.

Spent thousands of dollars I’d been saving for a house down payment. Submitted months of documentation, bank records, time sheets, everything to prove my innocence. My firm stood by me, but I could see the doubt in some people’s eyes. While I dealt with that mess, Jasmine worked on our old high school friends, started a group chat about planning a reunion, slowly dropped hints about how I’d bullied her back then, how I’d stolen her boyfriend junior year.

Complete lies, but told with just enough real details to seem believable. Some people remembered things differently, but others started posting about it, how they always thought I was jealous of her. How I probably still was. My phone lit up with messages from people I hadn’t talked to in years, calling me a bully, saying they’d seen my true colors.

I wanted to scream. She was rewriting history, and some people were buying it. That’s when I decided to fight back with the truth. I dug out my old yearbooks and photos. Found a video from senior year where Jasmine was openly mocking my weight in front of everyone. Another where she joked about my clothes being from Goodwill.

Posted them in the group chat without comment. The tide turned fast. Other people started sharing their own stories. How Jasmine had spread rumors about them. How she’d stolen boyfriends and turned friends against each other. Her lies unraveled as people compared notes. She left the group chat, but the damage to her story was done.

But she had one more card to play. During a huge client presentation at my firm, she showed up, dressed professionally this time, told reception she had an appointment with me, an urgent legal matter. They called up to the conference room. I had to step out in the middle of presenting to a Fortune 500 company. She was in the lobby making a scene, claiming I owed her money, that I’d stolen thousands from her.

Security tried to escort her out, but she got louder. My boss and several partners witnessed the whole thing. Even though they didn’t believe her, I could see their patients wearing thin. After she finally left, my boss pulled me aside. He said he understood this wasn’t my fault, but the firm had a reputation to protect.

If this continued affecting our work, we’d need to have a different conversation. That night, I sat at my kitchen table surrounded by papers, every note she’d left, screenshots of every fake post, recordings and videos, building my case. Nathan helped me organize everything chronologically. We created a timeline showing the escalation from the ice cream shop to now.

I started checking her social media more carefully. Her Instagram still showed the glamorous life, but I noticed things. The same outfits repeated in different posts. Fancy restaurant photos that were months old reposted as new. Designer items appearing on resale sites with her username. Then I found her car. Not from stalking, but because Mrs.

Chen mentioned seeing her friend sleeping in a Honda Civic in the visitor parking. I checked and sure enough, there was Jasmine’s car stuffed with clothes and blankets. She’d been living in it, using our building’s visitor spots to park overnight. The gym across the street had a deal where you could shower for a day pass.

I saw her going in every morning with a bag. The girl who used to brag about her apartment in the trendy part of town was homeless. Part of me felt bad. Most of me was just tired. This had to end. But I knew it would get worse before it got better. And I was right. The Facebook message from Jasmine’s mom came on a Tuesday afternoon while I was reviewing quarterly reports.

My phone buzzed with the notification and I almost deleted it without a second thought, assuming it was another fake account trying to sell me cryptocurrency or miracle weight loss supplements. But something about the profile picture made me pause. It was a real photo of Sandra Martinez looking older than I remembered, but unmistakably her.

The same warm eyes, the same gentle smile that used to greet me when I’d spend afternoons at their house in high school. I clicked through to her profile. Real photos going back years. Family barbecues, holiday gatherings, birthday parties, mutual friends from my hometown popped up like ghosts from the past.

People I hadn’t thought about in years, but who were apparently still connected in that strange Facebook way. My finger hovered over the accept button for a moment before I clicked it. Her message was long and desperate, the kind that makes your stomach drop before you’ve even finished reading it. She hadn’t heard from Jasmine in months, not since their last phone call that had ended in shouting and tears.

During that call, Jasmine had claimed she was running a successful marketing agency, describing clients and campaigns with the kind of specific detail that made lies sound like truth. She’d painted a picture of a penthouse apartment with Florida to ceiling windows overlooking the city, complete with a door man and a private gym.

She’d gushed about dating some tech entrepreneur named Marcus, who was about to sell his startup for millions. All elaborate lies her family had believed until her sister Angela stumbled across the eviction notice while doing research for a completely unrelated work project. public record from 3 months ago filed in municipal court listing Jasmine Martinez as the defendant.

I agreed to meet Sandra at a Starbucks near my office the following day. I arrived early ordering a black coffee and finding a corner table where we could talk privately. Sandra walked in looking exhausted as if she’d been carrying the weight of this situation for far too long. She’d aged 20 years since I’d last seen her at high school graduation when she’d hugged me and told me to keep in touch with Jasmine in college.

Her hair, once perfectly styled, was now streked with gray and pulled back in a simple ponytail. The designer handbag she’d always carried had been replaced with a worn canvas tote. She sat down heavily and immediately pulled out her phone, her hands shaking slightly as she scrolled through screenshots. Jasmine had been asking everyone for money.

Each request carefully crafted for maximum emotional impact. Her cousin Carrie had given her $2,000 for an emergency medical procedure, complete with fake hospital bills and doctor’s notes that Jasmine had somehow fabricated. Her aunt had paid $800 for car repairs on a vehicle that had already been repossessed 2 months earlier.

An uncle had covered her phone bill for 6 months, believing she needed it for her thriving business. But the worst part, Sandra said with tears forming in her eyes, was what she’d done to her sister. Angela had a good heart, always had. And when Jasmine showed up at her door claiming she’d been wrongfully evicted, Angela didn’t hesitate.

She’d set up the guest room, bought extra groceries, even lent Jasmine professional clothes for job interviews that never seemed to happen. 2 weeks later, Angela came home early from a canceled meeting to find Jasmine going through her jewelry box. Her grandmother’s pearl necklace was already in Jasmine’s purse, along with several other pieces.

Her credit cards had been maxed out on designer goods and cash advances. Jasmine had even tried to take out a personal loan in Angela’s name, using information she’d stolen from tax documents in the home office. When confronted, Jasmine hadn’t shown an ounce of remorse. Instead, she’d turned vicious, threatening to tell Angela’s husband about an affair that never happened. She claimed she had proof.

Text messages, photos, even a video, all fake, of course. But Angela’s marriage was already strained from work stress, and the threat was enough to terrify her. Angela kicked her out that night, but was still dealing with the identity theft, spending hours on the phone with credit agencies and filing police reports that probably wouldn’t go anywhere.

Sandra asked if I knew where Jasmine was staying, her voice barely above a whisper. I told her about the car in my visitor parking, how I’d seen her there multiple times, sometimes in the early morning, sometimes late at night. Sandra started crying, then real tears that she didn’t try to hide. She said they’d tried everything over the years.

Interventions with the whole family present. Therapy sessions that Jasmine would attend once or twice before declaring the therapist incompetent, even offering to pay for inpatient rehab, though Jasmine insisted she didn’t have a substance problem, just a money problem, a respect problem, and everyone else was against her problem.

I pulled out my laptop and showed her my documentation. The fake Instagram posts with my photos twisted into her narrative. The harassment that had escalated from annoying to frightening. The bar complaint that could have destroyed my career. Sandra’s face went white as she scrolled through it all. She said this wasn’t the first time, not even close.

Jasmine had done this to three other friends who’d tried to help over the years. Each situation following a disturbingly similar pattern. There was Amy from college, a sweet girl who’d been Jasmine’s roommate freshman year. She’d gotten Jasmine a job at the marketing firm where she worked, vouching for her despite Jasmine having no real experience.

Jasmine had lasted exactly two weeks before getting fired for stealing client information and trying to poach accounts for a non-existent competing agency. Then she’d spent months harassing Amy online, creating fake profiles to comment on Amy’s work achievements with lies about her being a backstabber. She’d called Amy’s new employer claiming Amy had stolen from their company, posted in alumni groups that Amy had sabotaged her career out of jealousy.

Another friend, Danielle, had made the mistake of letting Jasmine plan her wedding. Jasmine had presented herself as an experienced event coordinator, showing a portfolio that was entirely stolen from real wedding planners websites. She’d pocketed thousands in deposits from vendors, telling each one a different story about why the payments were delayed.

When everything fell through a month before the wedding, Jasmine had blamed Danielle, posting everywhere that Danielle was a bridezilla who’d ruined their friendship over flower arrangements and seating charts. The wedding almost got cancelled entirely because vendors were threatening to sue, and Danielle’s future in-laws thought she was either incompetent or a scammer herself.

The pattern was always the same, Sandra explained. Jasmine would seem desperate for help, posting just enough vulnerability to trigger people’s compassion. Someone would reach out, remembering the fun, charismatic girl she used to be. She’d take advantage of every kindness, pushing boundaries until she’d extracted everything she could.

Then, when called out, she’d burn everything down with such spectacular vindictiveness that most people just wanted to forget it ever happened. But this situation with me was the worst Sandra had seen, the most sustained attack, the most elaborate lies, the most potential for real damage. She gave me contact information for Amy and Danielle along with another woman named Becca who’d employed Jasmine briefly as a social media manager.

All three women had agreed to talk if I needed them to testify or provide evidence. Then Sandra asked a favor that I could see pain heard a voice. Would I consider not pressing charges if Jasmine got help? Real help this time, not the performative therapy sessions she’d attended before. I said I’d think about it, but we both knew the truth.

Jasmine wouldn’t accept help until she had absolutely no other choice. Until every avenue for manipulation had been closed off. That night, I called Amy first. She answered on the second ring, and when I explained who I was and why I was calling, she let out a long sigh. I’ve been waiting for this call for two years, she said.

Her story was eerily similar to mine, but with professional consequences I’d barely avoided. The fake evidence Jasmine had created was sophisticated, doctorred emails, manipulated timestamps, even a voice recording that sounded like Amy admitting to embezzlement. Amy had lost her job and spent four months unemployed while trying to clear her name.

She’d had to hire a digital forensics expert to prove the evidence was fake, draining her savings in the process. Danielle’s story was somehow worse. The wedding chaos had nearly ended her marriage before it began. Her husband had started to doubt her judgment, wondering how she could have trusted someone so obviously unstable.

They’d spent their honeymoon money on legal fees and vendor settlements. But the worst part was the social fallout. Jasmine had contacted every guest with stories about Danielle being a monster who’d destroyed their friendship. Some people believed it. Danielle had lost friendships that went back to childhood, all because she’d tried to help someone who seemed to be struggling.

Both women had eventually gotten restraining orders, but Jasmine always found ways around them. New social media accounts would pop up like weeds. She’d recruit strangers online to be her flying monkeys, people who believed her victim narrative, and would harass her targets on her behalf. She’d show up at places just outside the restricted distance, technically not violating the order, but making her presence known.

They’d given up and moved on, but both warned me she wouldn’t stop until forced. I decided to file for a restraining order. The next morning, Nathan helped me organize everything, creating a comprehensive timeline with supporting evidence for each incident. We printed every piece of digital harassment, made copies of the security videos, got written statements from Mrs.

Chen about the unwanted visits. My boss, who’d been incredibly supportive throughout this ordeal, wrote a detailed letter about the disruption at work and the potential damage to our company’s reputation. We even got the building security footage of her leaving notes, slipping them under my door at 3:00 a.m.

like some kind of deranged fairy tale villain. The court date was set for 3 weeks out. Jasmine would be served with papers and have a chance to respond. I knew she’d show up. She couldn’t resist a chance to play victim in front of an audience, especially one with legal authority, but she didn’t wait for court to escalate things. 2 days after being served, she launched a sophisticated campaign that showed just how calculated her chaos could be.

She started a GoFundMe with a masterfully crafted Saab story. According to her version, she was a successful entrepreneur who’d been targeted by a jealous former friend trying to destroy her life. She claimed I’d hacked her social media accounts, stolen her business ideas, and was now using the legal system to silence her.

She posted old photos from her influencer days as recent, making it look like she was still living that lifestyle. Said she needed money for a lawyer to fight the false allegations and to rebuild her business that I’d supposedly destroyed. The page was full of lies, but crafted with the skill of someone who’d been manipulating reality for years.

She mixed in just enough truth. Yes, we’d been friends. Yes, I was a lawyer to seem credible to strangers. She raised $300 in the first day, but I had learned from the best, her. I contacted GoFundMe with my documentation showing the restraining order paperwork and evidence of harassment.

They investigated quickly and took down the page within 48 hours, but new fundraisers kept popping up on different platforms, each with slightly different details to avoid detection. Then, she targeted Nathan’s business directly with a coordinated attack. She left reviews on every possible site, Google, Yelp, industry specific platforms I didn’t even know existed.

Each review was slightly different, but told the same basic lie that he’d scammed her, taken a large deposit for design work, and never delivered. Some reviews claimed he’d been unprofessional during their meeting. Others said he’d made inappropriate comments. One particularly creative review alleged he’d stolen her design ideas and sold them to competitors.

All one-star ratings, all posted within a 48 hour period, creating an avalanche of negativity that pushed his legitimate reviews down. Nathan spent entire days disputing each one, providing evidence that she’d never actually hired him, that their meeting had lasted 10 minutes, that no money had ever changed hands.

Some sites removed the reviews after investigating, but others didn’t have robust verification systems. His overall rating dropped from 4.9 stars to 3.2. Real clients started asking questions. One potential client canceled a meeting, explicitly citing the reviews as the reason. I wanted to confront her, to scream at her about the damage she was causing to innocent people.

But my lawyer was firm. No contact whatsoever. Document everything, but don’t engage. let the legal system handle it. So, I bit my tongue until it bled and kept building my case. A week before court, things got weird in a way that showed just how creative Jasmine could be in her harassment. I started getting food deliveries.

I didn’t order pizza at midnight when I was trying to sleep. Chinese food at 6:00 a.m. when I was getting ready for work. Always from different restaurants, always with instructions that it was prepaid as a gift from Jessica. The delivery drivers were understandably annoyed when I refused to accept the food. Some getting aggressive when I tried to explain it was harassment.

One driver got particularly angry, insisting I was trying to scam free food since the order notes said it was already paid for. Then service people started showing up. Plumbers claiming I had an emergency leak that was flooding the apartment below. Electricians saying I’d reported sparking outlets that could cause a fire.

Appliance repair people insisting my refrigerator was leaking coolant. All fake calls from burner phones. All using slightly different versions of my name and apartment number. All disrupting my work from home days and making me look unstable to my neighbors. The building manager, who’d been patient at first, was getting increasingly frustrated.

He threatened to find me for the false alarms and mentioned that repeated disruptions could be grounds for lease termination. She was trying to get me evicted through sheer persistence. Death by a thousand cuts make my life so chaotic, so exhausting that I dropped the restraining order just for peace. Nathan started staying over more to help deal with the chaos.

We developed a system, taking shifts working while the other handled whatever disaster showed up at the door. I was exhausted, running on 3 hours of sleep most nights, but I was also more determined than ever. She’d picked the wrong person to mess with. 3 days before court, I was reviewing my files when I noticed something that made everything click into place.

In one of her fake GoFundMe pages, she’d posted a soba story about losing her apartment because of my harassment campaign, but the dates didn’t match up. According to her story, I’d gotten her evicted last month, but I’d found the actual eviction notice online, and she’d been evicted 3 months before we’d even met at the ice cream shop.

I dug deeper into public records, spending hours on courthouse websites and legal databases. Found court records that painted a picture of financial destruction going back years. She’d been evicted for non-payment, owing six months of rent, plus late fees and legal costs. The landlord had sued and won a judgment for over $8,000.

She’d never paid a penny of it. There were other cases, too. Credit card companies seeking judgments for maxed out cards, a car loan default that resulted in repossession, even a judgment from a former roommate for unpaid utilities and damaged property. Jasmine wasn’t just broke. She was drowning in debt that went back to her influencer days.

The lifestyle she’d portrayed had been funded entirely by credit cards and personal loans, a house of cards that had collapsed years ago. When that dried up, she’d turned to friends and family, burning through relationships like they were renewable resources. When they finally cut her off, she’d gotten desperate enough to target acquaintances, former friends, anyone who showed a hint of sympathy.

I wasn’t special. I was just the latest target. Chosen because I had the most to lose and had shown kindness at a vulnerable moment. Court day arrived gray and drizzly, matching my mood perfectly. I wore my best suit, the one I saved for important client presentations, wanting to project professionalism and credibility.

Nathan came for moral support along with my boss, who’d volunteered to testify about the work disruption. My lawyer, a sharp woman named Patricia, who specialized in harassment cases, said we had one of the strongest cases she’d seen. The evidence was overwhelming and meticulously documented. Jasmine showed up 20 minutes late, looking like she’d slept in her car, which she probably had.

Her hair was unwashed and tangled, pulled back in a messy bun that looked nothing like the carefully styled updo from her Instagram days. Her clothes were wrinkled, a cheap polyester blazer over jeans that had seen better days. No makeup, no jewelry, no trace of the polished image she’d tried so hard to maintain.

She was representing herself, either unable to afford a lawyer or unable to find one willing to take her case. The judge was a nononsense woman named Judge Chen, no relation to my neighbor. But the coincidence made me smile despite my nerves. She reviewed the evidence methodically, occasionally asking for clarification, but mostly letting the documentation speak for itself.

The fake posts, the security videos, the notes, the bar complaint, the business reviews, the service calls. Each piece building a clear picture of escalating harassment. When it was Jasmine’s turn, she stood up shakily, gripping the table for support. She started rambling about how we’d been best friends since freshman year, how I’d abandoned her when she needed me most.

Her voice grew stronger as she warmed to her theme, describing how I’d always been jealous of her success, how I’d wanted what she had. She pulled out a folder of printed screenshots from her old Instagram, trying to show the judge how famous she’d been, how many followers she’d had, how I was trying to steal her life and her identity.

The judge cut her off with a raised hand, asked for specific evidence of harassment from me. Jasmine fumbled through her papers, finally pulling out screenshots of our text conversation from the ice cream shop. She pointed triumphantly to where I’d called her expired goods, saying, “This proved I was the aggressor, that I’d been cruel and abusive from the start.

” My lawyer calmly pointed out that this comment came after Jasmine had insulted my appearance, called me pathetic, and threatened my relationship. That mean words in response to harassment weren’t illegal, especially in a private conversation where I was defending myself. The judge agreed, noting that the text showed I’d tried to end the conversation multiple times while Jasmine continued to escalate.

Jasmine got more frantic then, her carefully constructed victim narrative crumbling. She started yelling about how I owed her, how she’d made me popular in high school when no one else would talk to me, how I wouldn’t be successful without her influence, her guidance, her friendship, how real friends share everything, and I was selfish for not helping her when she’d given me so much.

The entitlement in her voice was staggering, as if my entire life was somehow owed to her because she’d been nice to me as a teenager. The judge had heard enough. She granted the restraining order with conditions that were stricter than I’d hoped for. 2 years of absolutely no contact, including no third party contact.

She had to stay 500 feet away from my home and workplace. No social media contact or posts about me, even indirect ones. Any violation would result in immediate criminal charges. The judge’s voice was firm as she explained that harassment was a serious crime and that the evidence showed a clear pattern of escalating behavior that posed a genuine threat. Jasmine lost it completely.

She screamed that I was ruining her life, that I’d regret this, that she’d make sure everyone knew what kind of person I really was. Security guards moved toward her, but she wasn’t done. She turned to me directly, her face contorted with rage, and yelled that I owed her half of everything I had, that she’d made me who I was, that ugly girls like me should be grateful for friends like her, that I was nothing without her influence.

The judge added a criminal harassment charge right there in the courtroom, her face stern. She ordered Jasmine to undergo a comprehensive mental health evaluation and set a criminal court date for the following month. Jasmine was still screaming as security escorted her out, something about deserving better, and how the world was against her, how everyone would see the truth eventually.

My hands were shaking as we left the courthouse. Nathan held me close while my boss said I’d handled everything with grace and professionalism. My lawyer said the criminal charges would likely result in probation and mandatory therapy, possibly anger management classes as well. Maybe this would finally get Jasmine the help she clearly needed.

The next few weeks were blissfully quiet. No fake deliveries, no service calls, no notes under my door. I could finally breathe without wondering what chaos would come next. Work went back to normal and I threw myself into my projects with renewed energy. My boss mentioned he was impressed by how I’d handled the situation, maintaining professionalism despite the personal stress.

He even hinted at a promotion coming up, saying the company valued employees who could handle challenges with such maturity. Nathan’s business recovered once the fake reviews were removed, and his real clients rallied to post positive reviews in response. He even got a new client who’d been impressed by his professional response to the situation, saying it showed integrity.

We started looking at apartments together, ready to build a future without the shadow of Jasmine’s chaos hanging over us. I heard updates through Sandra, who texted me occasionally. Jasmine had been convicted of harassment and cyberstalking. The judge gave her two years probation with strict conditions, mandatory therapy twice a week, anger management classes, and community service.

She also had to pay restitution for my legal fees, though Sandra admitted she didn’t know how Jasmine would manage that given her financial situation. She was living with her parents in their basement, working at a department store in the mall where we used to hang out as teenagers. It was the first real job she’d had in years.

Sandra said the therapy seemed to be helping slowly. Jasmine was finally admitting to some of her behavior, though she still had a long way to go in terms of taking full responsibility. The therapist was working on her narcissistic tendencies and her inability to maintain healthy relationships.

She’d even written apology letters to Amy and Danielle as part of her therapy, though her therapist advised against sending them yet. She needed to be further along in treatment before attempting to make amends. I asked if she’d written one to me. Sandra said yes, but she understood if I never wanted to see it. The therapist had Jasmine write letters to all the people she’d hurt, not necessarily to send, but as an exercise in acknowledging the damage she’d caused.

I said, “Maybe someday I’d be ready to read it. Not now. Probably not for a long time, but maybe eventually when more time had passed and the wounds weren’t so fresh. 6 months later, I was packing up my apartment for the move to the condo Nathan and I had bought together. It was in a different neighborhood, a fresh start away from all the memories and associations.

As I wrapped picture frames in bubble wrap, I found an old photo of me and Jasmine from sophomore year. We were at the beach during spring break, sunburned and laughing, arms around each other like the best friends we thought we’d always be. Before the followers and the filters, before she decided that image was more important than authenticity, that being pretty and popular was worth any cost.

I almost threw it away, but decided to keep it. Not out of nostalgia, but as a reminder of how people can change, how friendship can become toxic, how success isn’t about what others think of you, but who you choose to be when no one’s watching. Mrs. Chen helped us move, bringing homemade cookies, and fussing over how we were packing the fragile items.

She said she missed having young people around, that the building had been too quiet lately. I asked if she’d seen Jasmine recently. She said no. that friend had stopped visiting months ago, right after the restraining order was granted. Then she patted my hand with her soft, wrinkled one and said, “Sometimes people need to fall all the way down before they can learn to stand on their own.

That helping someone who refuses to help themselves isn’t kindness, it’s enabling.” The last update I heard, Jasmine was still in therapy and working retail. Her Instagram had been deleted as part of her probation. Her family said she was making progress, but it was slow, taking it one day at a time. She’d had setbacks, moments where the old patterns tried to resurface, but the structure of probation and mandatory therapy was keeping her accountable.

I hoped it was true. Despite everything she’d put me through, I wanted her to find peace, to become a person who could have genuine relationships without exploitation. But I also knew my peace came from walking away, from refusing to enable her delusions or accept her abuse, from choosing my own worth over her need to tear others down to build herself up.

From recognizing that friendship shouldn’t come with a price tag, emotional or otherwise. Some friendships are meant to last forever, growing and evolving as we do. Others teach us valuable lessons about boundaries, self-respect, and the difference between helping and enabling. Jasmine taught me both lessons.

First as the friend who accepted me when no one else would, then as the cautionary tale of what happens when image becomes more important than integrity. And for that education in a strange and painful way, I was grateful. Life settled into a new normal after that. Nathan and I got comfortable in our condo. Work was going great.

I even got that promotion my boss had hinted at. Senior associate with a corner office and everything. The raise meant we could finally start saving for a real vacation, not just weekend trips to nearby cities. But you know how life is. Just when you think the drama is over, it finds a way back. It started small.

a friend request on LinkedIn from someone named J. Martin. The profile was sparse but professional looking. Said she worked in digital marketing, had connections with people I knew from law school. I almost accepted it before noticing the account was created last week. The profile photo was generic, probably stolen from some stock photo site. I blocked it immediately.

Then came the Amazon packages, random stuff I didn’t order, a yoga mat, phone cases for a model I didn’t own, supplements for conditions I didn’t have, all sent to my old apartment where the new tenants were getting annoyed. The building manager called me asking if I could update my address with whatever companies were sending this junk.

I knew it wasn’t companies. It was Jasmine testing boundaries again. I documented everything and sent it to my lawyer. Patricia said it was borderline, but not enough for a violation. The LinkedIn profile couldn’t be definitively linked to Jasmine. The packages to my old address weren’t directly harassing me at my new location.

We needed something more concrete. So, I waited and kept documenting. Nathan noticed it first. His Instagram started getting follow requests from accounts with no posts, no profile pictures, just random usernames. They’d view his stories then disappear. One account sent a DM asking about his design services using language that sounded familiar.

He screenshotted everything before blocking them. Then my mom called, said she’d gotten a strange Facebook message from someone claiming to be my college roommate, asking questions about me, saying they wanted to reconnect for my birthday. My mom, bless her, knew something was off. I’d lived alone in college after freshman year.

She told the person to contact me directly and blocked them. The pattern was clear. Jasmine was testing the restraining order, seeing how close she could get without technically violating it, using fake names, targeting people around me instead of me directly. It was exhausting, but I refused to let it shake me. I had a life to live. Three months passed with this low-level harassment, always just subtle enough to avoid legal consequences.

Then Sandra called with news that changed everything. Jasmine had stopped showing up for therapy. Missed three sessions in a row. Her probation officer was looking for her. She’d cleared out her room at her parents house in the middle of the night, taking only clothes and her laptop. My stomach dropped. This was bad. Really bad.

A person with nothing to lose was dangerous. And Jasmine had already lost everything. I called Patricia immediately. She said to be extra careful, vary my routines, maybe stay with friends for a few days. The probation violation meant Jasmine would be arrested on site, but they had to find her first. I took a week off work, telling my boss I had a family emergency.

Nathan and I stayed at his brother’s place across town. I worked remotely, checking in with neighbors and building security daily. Everyone was on alert. Mrs. Chen even organized a building watch group, recruiting other retirees to keep an eye out for suspicious activity. Days passed with no sign of her. I started to relax, thinking maybe she’d left town.

Then Nathan’s brother, Scott, mentioned something odd. A woman had been asking about us at the coffee shop near his apartment. Said she was an old friend trying to surprise us. The barista thankfully didn’t give out any information, but it meant Jasmine knew where we were staying. We packed up immediately and went to a hotel downtown, one of those big chains where you need a key card for everything.

Security cameras everywhere. I felt like I was in some bad movie, hiding from a stalker ex-friend, but I wasn’t taking chances. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Something felt wrong. I kept checking the locks, peeking through the curtains. Nathan said I was being paranoid, but didn’t stop me

. Around 3:00 a.m., my phone buzzed. A notification from the doorbell camera at our condo. Motion detected. I opened the app with shaking hands. There she was. Jasmine looking rough, hair matted, clothes dirty, carrying a backpack that looked stuffed full. She was trying different keys in our lock. Where did she even get keys? Then I remembered the spare I used to keep under the fake rock by the door.

I’d moved it months ago, but she must have made a copy back when she was visiting Mrs. Chen. I called 911 immediately, told them someone was breaking into my home, that I had a restraining order, that she was violating probation. They dispatched units right away. Nathan called building security to keep an eye on her until police arrived.

We watched on the camera as she got more frustrated, kicking the door, throwing her body against it. Then she pulled something from her backpack. A crowbar. She was going to break in. My heart was racing. All our stuff was in there. Our computers, important documents, the life we built together, but before she could do any real damage.

Police arrived. Three cars, lights flashing. They approached carefully. She saw them and tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. They had the building surrounded. We watched her get arrested, hands behind her back, shoved into the patrol car. It was over. Finally over, or so I thought. The next morning, Patricia called with updates.

Jasmine had been carrying more than just break-in tools. She had printed copies of every photo from my social media going back years. Pictures of Nathan and me with big red X’s drawn over our faces, detailed notes about our routines, where we worked, where we shopped, where we ate dinner on Fridays. She’d been planning something.

What exactly? We’d never know, but it was enough to add additional charges. The prosecutor took it seriously this time. No more probation. No more second chances. Jasmine was held without bail pending trial. Her public defender tried to argue she needed treatment, not jail. But the judge had seen enough. the pattern of escalation, the violation of probation, the evidence of planning something worse.

She was deemed a genuine threat. During the trial, more victims came forward. A woman named Becca, who’d hired Jasmine briefly, a guy named Billy, who’d dated her for 2 months before she emptied his bank account. Even her old manager from the boutique, who revealed Jasmine had been stealing from the register and blaming other employees.

The prosecution painted a picture of someone who’d been manipulating and exploiting people for years. Jasmine tried to play victim one last time, claimed everyone was against her, that society hated pretty women who were confident, that we were all jealous of her success, but the evidence was overwhelming.

The jury deliberated for less than two hours, guilty on all counts, stalking, harassment, attempted breaking and entering, probation violation, identity theft from the fake profiles. The judge sentenced her to 3 years in state prison with mandatory psychiatric treatment, no early release, no probation this time. Sandra called me crying after the sentencing, said she was relieved, but heartbroken.

Her daughter needed help, but had refused it so many times they’d run out of options. Maybe prison would finally be the rock bottom Jasmine needed. I told Sandra it wasn’t her fault. Some people have to learn the hard way. Some never learn at all. Nathan and I had the locks changed again.

Added extra security measures, a better camera system, an alarm that went straight to the police. It felt like overkill, but I needed to feel safe in my own home again. Slowly, life returned to normal. Real normal, not the constant looking over my shoulder kind. My career thrived without the distraction. I made partner at the firm 2 years later.

Nathan’s business expanded to include two employees. We got married in a small ceremony with just family and close friends. No drama, no unexpected guests, no one trying to ruin our day. It was perfect. I heard Jasmine got out after serving her full sentence. Sandra sent one last update.

Jasmine was living in a halfway house, working at a warehouse, attending mandatory therapy. She’d gained weight from the prison food. Her Instagram Perfect image was long gone, but she was clean, sober, and following the rules. Small victories. She never contacted me again. Whether because she’d finally learned or because she knew I’d send her right back to prison, I didn’t know. Didn’t care.

that chapter of my life was closed, locked away like she’d been. Sometimes I think about that day at the ice cream shop, how different things might have been if I just walked away when she insulted me. If I hadn’t made that comment about expired goods, but then I remember all her other victims, Amy, Danielle, Becca, Billy, probably dozens more who never came forward.

She would have found a reason to target me eventually. That’s what predators do. They hunt. Mrs. Chen passed away last year. Peaceful in her sleep at 91. At her funeral, her daughter mentioned how much she’d loved having young neighbors who looked out for her. How I’d helped her with groceries and Nathan had fixed her computer.

how we’d made her feel safe when that troubled girl was coming around. Even in death, Mrs. Chen was looking out for us, making sure her family knew we were the good ones. I still have that old photo of me and Jasmine at the beach. It’s in a box in the closet with other high school memorabilia, yearbooks, graduation programs, dried corages from dances, reminders of a simpler time when your biggest worry was passing chemistry and whether your crush liked you back.

Before you learned that some friendships are toxic, that pretty faces can hide ugly souls, that sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is absolutely nothing. But I don’t dwell on it. Life’s too short and too good now. I’ve got real friends who support me without keeping score. A husband who loves me for exactly who I am.

A career I built with my own brain and hard work. A home that’s a sanctuary, not a fortress. And yeah, I’m still the ugly friend by Jasmine’s standards. My hair frizzes in humidity. I’ll never have a flat stomach. My idea of makeup is mascara and lip balm. But I’m okay with that. More than okay, because I know something Jasmine never learned.

Real beauty isn’t about your face or your followers or how many guys want you. It’s about how you treat people when you have nothing to gain. It’s about building others up instead of tearing them down. It’s about being someone people can count on. So that’s my story. My rich, pretty best friend tried to destroy my life because I wouldn’t enable her delusions anymore.

She failed because I refused to let her because I had good people around me and a legal system that eventually worked because rock bottom isn’t just a place you hit. Sometimes it’s a cell you’re locked in until you’re ready to change. I hope she’s really getting help now. I hope she’s learning to be a real person instead of a carefully curated image.

I hope she finds peace, but mostly I hope I never see her again. Some bridges aren’t meant to be rebuilt. Some people aren’t meant to stay in your life, and that’s okay. That’s more than okay. That’s freedom.