We were two—me and Agnes—but it was Agnes he called. I wasn’t surprised. Everyone calls Agnes. Sometimes she feels bad on my behalf, but I tell her, “When the one who was made for me comes along, he won’t see you. It’s me he’ll call because I’m made for him, and he’s made for me.”

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That day, Agnes left me and went to see the guy. She came back in love with him. His name was Mathew. I knew Agnes was in love because she couldn’t stop talking about him. When Mathew wasn’t calling her, she asked me, “Should I call him myself?” I told her, “You’re a lady. Don’t let him know this early that you’re desperate for him.”

They became a love story very quickly, and I became a spectator—a witness to their romance. One evening, I joined them on a date. Mathew paid for everything. Agnes was worried that I was too quiet. Every time I went silent, he asked if I was having fun. I told him I was okay. It was a great night. They drank while I watched. They proposed a toast, their glasses met, and they kissed in celebration.

Every time Agnes went out with Mathew, she came back with good news about him. She couldn’t stop talking. She sounded like it was her first time in love. “Mathew this, Mathew that. Mathew said, Mathew didn’t say.” I listened patiently, as all good friends do. When they finally had sex for the first time, my ears got no rest. “Wow, he’s such a sweet guy. You can’t imagine the things he did with my body.” I sat through her TED Talk as she delivered a speech on how a man had owned her body.

When they went out and Mathew bought her something, she made him get something for me too. I ended up with Mathew’s number because I was always thanking him. “Mathew, I got the gift you gave me. Thank you.” “Mathew, Agnes delivered the food. Thank you very much.”

I was full of gratitude toward him every time because he didn’t stop giving me things—until one day, he commented on my WhatsApp status, and it turned into a full-fledged conversation.

He asked why I wasn’t coming with Agnes to see him like the first time. He asked what I did for a living and whether I loved what I was doing. Normal conversations, but they didn’t stop, even though I wanted them to. I told Agnes every time Mathew messaged me. Sometimes she already knew because Mathew had told her he’d spoken to me.

And then it happened. It happened the second time I visited his place. I saw it coming, and I allowed it to happen. That’s what makes me feel terrible. I tried to stop him, but he kept pushing. “No, you’re my friend’s boyfriend. I can’t let this happen between us.”

He kept breathing into my ear, pushing until he had his way. It felt strange, but he enjoyed it. He lied and said it was the best he’d ever had. I told him it felt like guilt.

The next time I saw Agnes, I couldn’t look her in the face. I avoided her calls for days and couldn’t act right when she was happy. She often came with good news, but I couldn’t celebrate wholeheartedly with her. I felt like a piece of evil. My mind was in constant battle with me, hurling insults: “You’re a harlot, a disaster. You don’t deserve to be called a friend. You’re worse than Judas. He sold Jesus for money. Where’s your money?”

But the worst was yet to come. A few weeks later, when my period delayed, I kept screaming to myself, “No… Noooo, this shouldn’t happen to me.”

I was too scared to check. I prayed to God, promising to surrender my life to Him if He would just let this not be true. After a week of delay, I had no option but to check. It was positive.

I cried. I wanted to end it. I wished there was a way to end my life without harming the baby. I was the one with the guilt, not the baby. Agnes saw the shadow of my pain printed on my face and asked what I was going through. Being pregnant was the last confession I could make to her, so I lied. I kept it to myself until one early morning, I took the medicine that flushed everything out of my body—except the guilt.

I still carry it around. The guilt. The shame. Agnes doesn’t know what happened between me and her boyfriend, so she still speaks well of him to me. Mathew wanted it again. He spent days trying to convince me to do it again with him. He said, “You were the one I should have called that day, but I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Men don’t feel guilt, I guess. It seems like life is a game men play. It’s us women who take things seriously because we’re the ones who suffer the brunt of society’s judgment. I wish there was a way I could walk away from this friendship. Seeing Agnes happy with someone she shouldn’t be happy with makes me sad, and the way Mathew is handling the whole thing nonchalantly makes me angry.

Marriage Through the Eyes of Millennials and Gen-Z

It’s my cross to carry. The price I have to pay for being cheap and easy to get. I’m working on myself, and I’ll see what happens in the end. This isn’t the kind of story you share with anyone. We can only write it down and put it out there anonymously, hoping it might help reduce the guilt. Whatever you say I am, I’ve already told myself because I really am.

—Emily

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