I was browsing a second-hand website and found my smart watch.

The seller was my girlfriend.

I pretended to be someone else and texted that I wanted to buy it. I came to an agreed place. When she realized I was the buyer, she froze like she’d seen a ghost.

I just stood there holding the cash, acting like I was still “interested” in the watch, though I already knew it was mine. She stared at me, then glanced at the watch like it might disappear.

“Adil?” she whispered. “What… are you doing here?”

“You tell me, Roya,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Selling stolen goods now?”

That watch was a gift from my brother, Sameer. He gave it to me the day I graduated from university—engraved the back with a quote in Farsi from our late father: “Time never waits. Use it or lose it.”

I wore that watch every day. Until a week ago, when it went missing from my apartment. I thought I lost it at the gym, or maybe left it at my mom’s. I turned my place upside down.

Turns out, I didn’t lose it. Roya stole it.

She looked guilty, then defensive. “I was going to tell you. I needed money, Adil.”

“Enough to sell my graduation gift without even asking?”

She tried to step forward. I stepped back.

“It’s not what you think—”

“What is it, then?” I asked. “Because from here, it looks exactly like betrayal.”

The air was heavy between us. We were in the parking lot of a coffee shop, but it might as well have been a courtroom.

“I just needed a few hundred to fix my car. I was gonna put it back,” she mumbled.

“You don’t ‘put back’ a gift someone gave me. You ask. Or tell me you’re struggling. We’ve been together two years.”

She sighed and looked down at the ground, biting her lip.

That was the end of it for me, or so I thought.

I walked away that day, watch in my pocket, heart in pieces. I didn’t block her, didn’t make a scene, didn’t tell mutual friends. Just… ghosted. I thought that was the mature thing.

But a week later, she showed up at my doorstep.

“I want to explain,” she said, eyes puffy like she hadn’t slept. “Please.”

Against my better judgment, I let her in.

We sat in silence for a moment before she started. “I didn’t just need money for my car. My mom’s been in and out of the hospital. I’m the only one working, and everything’s been piling up. Rent, meds, groceries. I didn’t know how to ask you. You already do so much.”

It knocked the wind out of me. Because part of me believed her. Roya always took care of her mother, even skipped out on trips and dinners because her mom needed her.

But stealing?

“Why not just tell me? Or ask to borrow something else? That watch meant a lot.”

“I was ashamed,” she said quietly. “And I thought you’d think less of me.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

We talked for a long time that night. Or rather, she talked, and I listened. She told me about how the bills spiraled out of control, how she’d started selling little things—jewelry she didn’t wear, gadgets—and eventually, things that weren’t hers.

“Yours was the only thing I could get real money for, fast,” she said, her voice cracking.

That hurt more than I wanted to admit.

But the part that stuck with me? She never spent the money. She still had it. She was waiting for “the right time” to tell me and give it back.

I didn’t take her back. But I didn’t slam the door either. I told her I needed time.

I started noticing how heavy everything felt—how little we really talked before all this. I’d been working overtime, saving for a house, thinking long-term. Maybe I missed signs.

But then… something unexpected happened.

Two weeks later, I got a call from my bank. Someone had deposited $5,000 into my account. Anonymous.

At first, I thought it was a mistake.

Then I got a text from Roya:
“For the watch. And everything else I took for granted. Don’t reply. Just know I’m making things right.”

I didn’t reply. But I didn’t delete the message either.

Months passed. I got promoted. Moved into a new apartment. I started dating again, nothing serious.

Then, in early spring, I ran into Roya again—at a community fundraiser for her mom’s clinic. She was working the event, face flushed, hands full of donation forms.

She didn’t notice me at first. But I saw the change. She looked healthier, calmer. Like someone who had been through a storm and walked out better.

When our eyes met, she smiled. Not sheepishly. Just… gently.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

We talked for a bit. Turns out she picked up a side hustle as a virtual assistant, paid off some debts, and started organizing community events.

“I needed to hit rock bottom to realize how off-track I was,” she said. “Not just with you—with myself.”

I could see that.

There was no bitterness. No drama. Just two people who had history, standing in the sun on a Saturday afternoon, grown in different directions.

We didn’t get back together.

But later that week, I donated $1,000 to the clinic’s fundraiser. Anonymous.

Couple days after that, she sent a thank-you message to everyone who donated.

She didn’t know it was me.
I didn’t tell her.

Some things don’t need to be reopened. But they deserve closure.

And if there’s anything I learned, it’s this:

People don’t always hurt you because they’re bad. Sometimes, they’re drowning. That doesn’t mean you let them pull you under. But it does mean you forgive when you’re ready—and heal how you need to.

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