For months, my boyfriend wouldnt stop talking about a woman who lived just a few doors down from him. It wasnt just the odd comment here or thereit was relentless. Every single time we walked down that street, he had something to say about her: the way she dressed, how she apparently spoke far too loudly, how she strutted along like she owned the place, how her laugh rang out boldly through the cul-de-sac. Even her job, he would say, was a waste of time. After a while, I began to wonder if he was obsessed.
Hed bring her up even when she wasnt anywhere nearby. If we happened to be watching TV and a woman vaguely resembling her appeared, hed mutter, She dresses exactly like the neighbour. If someone across the pub was a bit noisy, hed grumble, Just like that woman from the street. I listened to all of itthough it struck me as a bit much, I never thought to suspect anything. I simply assumed he just didnt like her.
One afternoon, we were sitting in his living room when I spotted her walking past the window. He jumped up first and sneered, making some remark about her lipsticksaying she wore it only to get attention. I asked if he actually knew her. He told me no, that hed just seen her around and found her brash. I didnt push it. The thought that something else might be going on never crossed my mind.
But over time, I started to notice peculiar things. Whenever she was nearby, he seemed edgy. If we were sat outside and she passed, his voice would drop to a whisper. If I started to ask about her, he quickly changed the subject. Then he began guarding his phonehed wander off to reply to texts, take it into the bathroom, or set it face down on the coffee table.
The truth came crashing into my life on a perfectly ordinary Thursday. A neighbour I barely knew pulled me aside on my way back from the corner shop and asked if I was actually his girlfriend. When I said yes, he gave me the oddest look before telling me hed seen my boyfriend going into her house many timeseven at hours when Id assumed he was at the office. He told me quietly that he wasnt trying to interfere, but he didnt think it was fair for me to be left in the dark.
I didnt sleep a wink that night.
The following morning, I confronted him. At first, he denied everythingsaid it was just people gossiping, making things up. But when I laid out the detailsactual days, specific times, moments he couldnt talk his way aroundhe went silent. Then he owned up. Theyd been seeing each other for months. All the nasty things hed said about her were just to throw me off the scent. The constant criticism was a smokescreen.
Suddenly, it all made sense. Why she was always on his lips. Why he knew exactly what she wore, how she walked, the cadence of her laugh. No one recalls that much about someone theyre indifferent to. No one picks apart another person in that much detail unless theyre paying incredibly close attention.
For months, Id listened to a running description of his lover without knowing it.
The worst part wasnt even the betrayal itself. It was knowing Id been usedthat Id sat beside him while he slagged off the very woman he was sleeping with. That hed laughed about her, lied, looked me straight in the eyes while manufacturing the perfect cover.
I learned something Ill never forget: when someone feels the need to endlessly criticise another person, there is almost always something hidden just beneath the surface.
