What’s The Most UNHINGED THING Your Ex Did After You BROKE UP?

What’s The Most UNHINGED THING Your Ex Did After You BROKE UP?

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
What's the most unhinged thing your ex did after you
broke up? When people ask why I'm still single after
all these years, I usually laugh it off with some
self deprecating joke. But the truth, the truth, is that
my last relationship ended so catastrophically that it could be
its own case study in what the actual hell just happened.
It started with a breakup that at first felt almost civil.

(00:20):
After three years together, I told Vanessa I couldn't do
it anymore. There wasn't one explosive reason, more like a
slow accumulation of cracks. She'd become unpredictable, jealous over the
smallest things, and had this growing obsession with controlling how
I interacted with literally everyone, from my friends to my
own sister. Still, when I finally ended it, she just
stared at me for a long time and said, fine,

(00:43):
if that's what you want. It should have ended there,
But with Vanessa, fine was never fine. Two days later,
I woke up to a flood of texts from friends
asking if I was okay. Confused, I opened social media
to find that Vanessa had posted a black and white
photo of her crying, captioned when you give someone everything
and they throw you away for someone younger, which was
insane because there was no someone younger. She'd invented a

(01:07):
mistress out of thin air. That was the warm up act.
Within a week, she was dming every mutual acquaintance we had,
claiming she'd found proof I'd been cheating for over a year.
Some people didn't believe her, but others did, especially because
she went the extra mile and photoshopped fake screenshots of
me on dating apps. One looked so real that even
I double checked my phone to make sure my account

(01:28):
hadn't been hacked. The part that really burned she sent
one of those fakes to my boss. I got called
into HR for an informal conversation about conduct outside of work. Thankfully,
they realized quickly that it wasn't real, but the humiliation
was there. Every time I walked into the office, I
wondered who had seen it and quietly judged me. When
that didn't get the reaction she wanted, she escalated. I

(01:50):
started getting mysterious deliveries, ten pizzas to my apartment that
I hadn't ordered, a bouquet of sympathy flowers addressed to
the betrayed lover, and once a massive box of adult
toys I definitely hadn't purchased. The delivery driver smirked the
whole time he dropped it off. Then came the phone
calls at all hours, sometimes silent, sometimes with her playing

(02:12):
songs we used to listen to, sometimes just her breathing
heavily into the line before hanging up. I changed my number.
She got the new one within forty eight hours. The
most surreal moment happened about a month after the breakup.
I came home to find her sitting on the stairs
outside my apartment building holding a shoe box. She looked calm,
almost serene, which was somehow worse than if she'd been screaming.

(02:34):
I thought you should have these, she said, handing me
the box, inside a shredded pile of old love letters
I'd written her, mixed in with polaroids of us cut
in half so that only I was visible. No explanation.
She just stood up and walked away. Friends kept telling
me to get a restraining order, but part of me
still thought she'd eventually get tired and move on. I
underestimated just how far she was willing to go, because

(02:56):
the next thing she did, the thing that truly crossed
into unhinged terror. Made me realize I wasn't just dealing
with a bitter X. I was dealing with someone who
was ready to burn the whole world down if it
meant I'd notice. And that's when the police got involved.
The night it all tipped over started like any other.
I was watching TV, finally feeling like maybe she'd moved on,
because I hadn't heard from Vanessa in a week. I

(03:18):
even joked to my friend Mark on the phone that
I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.
That light turned out to be the flashing red and
blue of a police cruiser. Around ten thirty pm, there
was a loud knock at my door. When I opened it,
two uniformed officers were standing there, hands resting near their belts.
Face is serious, one asked, are you John Miller? I
nodded instantly, nervous. They told me they'd received a nine

(03:40):
to one to one call from a woman who claimed
she was locked inside my apartment against her will. My
stomach dropped. I live alone. They insisted on coming in
to make sure no one was in danger. I let
them in, still stunned, and watched as they swept through
my apartment. Obviously, they found nothing, but the way they
exchanged glances made it clear they weren't sure if they
were walking into a domestic dispute or some bizarre prank.

(04:03):
It didn't take me long to figure out who'd made
the call. The officers eventually admitted they had the number
from the nine to one to one report, but they
couldn't tell me more unless I filed a report myself.
When I pressed them, one said, carefully, if this is
a harassment situation, you might want to document everything. This
call could have gone very differently for you. That night,
I barely slept. I kept imagining what would have happened

(04:25):
if they'd believed her right away, if I'd been cuffed,
if my neighbors had seen it, if my employer got
wind of it. The next day, I contacted a lawyer.
He told me to start saving every message, screenshot, and
delivery slip. We even discussed getting a restraining order, but
he warned that in our state, without direct threats or
physical stalking, it might be hard to get one approved.

(04:46):
Vanessa must have sensed I was starting to fight back
Because the harassment changed tactics. She began targeting the people
around me instead. First was my sister Emily. One morning,
Emily called me in tears because someone had created a
fake Instagram account using her photos and was sending explicit
DMS to random men, some of whom were mutuals with Vanessa,

(05:06):
the profile's bio keeping it in the family. Then it
was Mark, my oldest friend. He got a handwritten letter
at his office accusing him of helping me cover up
crimes against women. It was signed concerned citizen, but in
handwriting I recognized instantly. The worst was when my landlord
called saying he'd received an anonymous complaint that I was
running an illegal business out of my apartment. I had

(05:28):
to let an inspector come in just to prove I wasn't.
The whole thing was humiliating. By now I was paranoid.
I started checking my locks twice a night, varying my
commute to work, even looking over my shoulder when I
walked home. It felt insane to think Vanessa could be watching,
but some part of me couldn't shake it, And then
she proved me right. One Saturday morning, I stepped outside

(05:49):
to grab coffee and saw something taped to the windshield
of my car. It was an envelope, my name scrawled
across the front in that looping, almost childlike handwriting. She
had inside was a single photo, a picture of me sleeping.
The angle was from outside my bedroom window. That was
the moment I went from stressed to genuinely afraid. If
she'd been close enough to take that photo, she'd been

(06:10):
on my property, maybe even within feet of me while
I was unconscious. I took it straight to the police.
This time they listened. They opened a harassment and trespassing case,
and the detective assigned told me to install cameras immediately.
I did, front door, back alley, even a motion sensor
in the hallway. For about a week after that, there
was silence, no calls, no deliveries, no fake accounts. I

(06:33):
started hoping that maybe the police contact had scared her,
But deep down I knew Vanessa wasn't the type to
back down, and sure enough, when she resurfaced, it wasn't
with another creepy stunt. It was with something far bigger,
far messier, and infinitely more dangerous, because Vanessa had decided
to take her story public, and she was going to
make sure the whole internet saw it. I wish I

(06:55):
could say I was surprised when I saw her face
pop up on my phone screen that Monday morning, But
I wasn't. What surprised me was how it happened. It
wasn't a text or a call. It was a video,
a video that already had tens of thousands of views.
Someone had sent me a TikTok link with the message, dude,
is this about you? I clicked. There She was Vanessa,

(07:15):
sitting in her bedroom with fake tears streaking her cheeks,
talking straight into the camera. The video's title read story Time,
How I escaped my abusive ex, who everyone thinks is
a nice guy. She didn't use my name, but she
didn't have to. She described my job, my neighborhood, my car,
even my favorite coffee shop. Anyone who knew us, anyone
who'd ever followed her online, could piece it together in seconds.

(07:39):
Then came the accusations. She claimed I'd emotionally tortured her,
stalked her after she left, and threatened her life more
than once. She even said she had screenshots and recordings
but couldn't share them yet for legal reasons. It was
masterfully manipulative. She framed herself as a survivor, telling her
truth to warn other women, and the comments, my God,

(08:00):
the comments sending you love queen. He needs to be exposed.
Name him, don't let him get away with it. The
video blew up. By the end of the day, it
had over half a million views. Strangers started dming me
with threats, some promising to find me, others telling me
I should end myself before they did it for me.
I called my lawyer in a panic. He told me

(08:20):
not to engage online and to keep documenting everything. But
that's the thing about viral mobs. Once the narrative is set,
the truth doesn't matter. Two days later, she posted Part two,
this time holding a blurred out photo she claimed was
proof of a bruise. I'd given her the problem. The
picture was from two years earlier, and I knew for
a fact she'd gotten that bruise falling off her bike,

(08:41):
but in her story, it was the night she escaped
my apartment. I reported the videos, but TikTok didn't remove them.
Doesn't violate our guidelines, they said. It started spilling into
real life. I got heckled walking to my car. Someone
slipped a note under my apartment door that said abuser.
My boss called me into his own office again, this
time looking genuinely uncomfortable. He told me multiple clients had

(09:05):
expressed concern about being associated with me after seeing things online.
And then came the protest. One Saturday morning. I looked
out my window to see six people standing on the
sidewalk with handmade signs that read stop John Miller and
believe survivors. I had no idea who they were, friends
of hers, random strangers from the internet. They stood there
for hours, taking turns live streaming. By the time they left,

(09:28):
my building manager was knocking on my door, saying, this
is becoming a liability for us. I couldn't take it
any I went to the detective handling my case and
laid everything out, the videos, the harassment, the trespassing photo.
He told me they were considering harassment and defamation charges,
but warned it would be a slow process. Meanwhile, Vanessa
wasn't slowing down. In fact, she was escalating again, and

(09:50):
this time she wasn't just painting me as an abuser.
She was accusing me of crimes I could actually be
arrested for, and she had evidence the kind she manufactured herself.
I thought I'd already seen the worst she could do.
I was wrong. It started with a knock at my
door just before midnight on a Thursday. I opened it
to find two police officers standing there, one holding a

(10:10):
Manila folder. My stomach sank instantly. Mister Miller, we need
to ask you some questions, one said. They told me
someone had come forward with digital evidence that I'd been
harassing and threatening them via email. They wouldn't say who,
but I didn't need to guess. Vanessa's fingerprints were all
over this. The officer opened the folder and pulled out
a stack of printed emails. The first one had my

(10:33):
full name in the sender's address, John dot Miller nineteen
eighty nine at provider dot com, and it was vile,
detailed threats, graphic language, promises of violence, and the date stamps,
all from the past two weeks. My hands started shaking,
not because I'd sent them, but because they looked real.
I told the officers those weren't mine, that I'd never

(10:55):
even had that email address. They said the recipient had
screenshots from their inbox going the messages arriving from that account.
The recipient, of course, was Vanessa. I begged them to
look deeper, to trace the IP addresses. One of the officers,
thankfully seemed skeptical and told me they'd need to verify
before taking further action, but the other was clearly ready

(11:15):
to treat me as guilty until proven innocent. After they left,
I sat in my living room in the dark, staring
at my phone. If she could fake something that convincing,
what was next? Could she plant something on my devices?
Could she claim I'd assaulted her and make it stick.
The next morning I called my lawyer. He was furious
and immediately brought in a digital forensics expert. They analyzed

(11:36):
the emails and confirmed they'd been spoofed, essentially faked to
look like they came from me, but actually sent from
an overseas server. The time stamps had even been altered.
We brought that to the detective. He said it was
enough to formally add criminal impersonation to her list of
potential charges, but again, this was going to take time. Meanwhile,
I still had to live with the fact that for

(11:57):
several hours there was a police file with my name
on it and threats of violence attached. But Vanessa wasn't
satisfied with just trying to get me arrested. A week later,
I woke up to find my work email had been hacked.
Every client I'd corresponded with in the past six months
got an email claiming I'd been let go for misconduct
and offering them a special discount if they switched to

(12:18):
a new service, a link that redirected to a PayPal
account under the name v Lane. The IT department managed
to shut it down quickly, but not before several clients
called my boss directly, confused and concerned. My boss, to
his credit, didn't believe the nonsense, but he made it
clear that the company couldn't weather this kind of attention forever.
I was losing everything piece by piece. The police told

(12:41):
me that if I caught her on camera near my
property again, it would help push things forward. So I
upgraded my security system. I added motion activated spotlights and
multiple high definition cameras. I even got alert sent straight
to my phone. Three nights later, I got one at
two thirteen am. The motion sensor in my driveway went off.
When I pulled up the footage, my blood ran cold.

(13:03):
It was Vanessa, hoot up gloves on, holding something in
her hand. She walked right up to my car and
crouched near the gas tank. After about thirty seconds, she stood,
looked straight into the camera and smiled a slow, deliberate
smile before walking away. When I checked my car in
the morning, there was sugar in the gas tank, thousands
in repairs. That footage finally got her arrested, but only briefly.

(13:26):
She posted bail within hours, and when she got out,
she didn't hide. She made it clear in the most
public way possible that she wasn't finished, because the next
thing she did wasn't just about ruining me. It was
about making me afraid to exist. The first morning after
she got out on bail, I stepped outside the head
to work and froze tape. To my apartment door was
a sheet of paper with a single sentence written in

(13:48):
thick black marker. You'll never feel safe again. No signature,
no flourish, just a promise. I ripped it down and
shoved it in my bag, taking it straight to the detective.
He sighed that weary sigh cops give when they know
something's wrong but can't quite prove enough to act, and
told me to stay vigilant. From that day on, every
corner of my life felt compromised. It started small. My

(14:10):
favorite coffee shop, the one I went to every morning
before work suddenly felt watched. I'd be halfway through my
latte and notice the same car idling outside for twenty minutes.
Or I'd see someone in a hoodie sitting in the corner,
never ordering, just scrolling on their phone and occasionally glancing
up at me. One afternoon, I came home to find
a package on my doorstep, no return address inside. A

(14:31):
disposable phone with a single contact saved me. I threw
it straight in a drawer, figuring it was bait for something,
but a few hours later it started buzzing over and over.
I didn't answer. Then my neighbors started asking questions. Someone
had been knocking on their doors late at night, asking
do you know the guy in four B. You should
know who you're living next to. Some neighbors admitted they

(14:52):
didn't even open the door, they just heard the voice
through the peephole. Others said it was a woman in
a baseball cap, head down, always leaving quickly. The paranoia
became exhausting. I switched up my grocery store, I stopped
jogging my normal route. I even started taking different exits
off the highway just to make sure no one was
following me. But no matter how I changed my patterns,

(15:13):
I'd still catch glimpses, a flash of her hair disappearing
around a corner, a figure ducking into a shop as
I walked past. One night, around eleven PM, I was
sitting on my couch when I heard the faintest scratching
sound at my front door, not knocking, scratching like someone
slowly dragging metal along the wood. My heart was pounding
so hard I could hear it in my ears. I

(15:34):
grabbed my phone, hit record, and crept to the peepole.
There she was, Vanessa, kneeling in front of my door,
dragging a key, my old apartment key, across the paint,
carving something. I yelled through the door for her to leave.
She didn't flinch, didn't run, She just looked straight into
the peep hole, smirked, and walked away. When I opened

(15:54):
the door, I saw what she'd carved. Three letters run.
The detective said the footage was good eviden, but not
enough for immediate jail time unless she violated a direct
no contact order. We were still in the process of
securing one, but the incident changed something in me. I
started sleeping with a baseball bat next to my bed.
I left the TV on low all night, just so

(16:14):
i'd hear if the volume changed. And then came the
worst blow yet. My parents, who live in another state,
called one Sunday morning, their voices tight with panic. Someone
had mailed them a packet of evidence claiming I was
under investigation for violent crimes. The packet included printouts of
Vanessa's videos, fake police reports, and what looked like mugshots

(16:35):
of me badly edited from a photo I'd taken at
a wedding. The return address none, but the postmark was
from my city. That was when I realized she wasn't
just targeting me anymore. She was trying to destroy me
in the eyes of the only people whose opinion I
still cared about. My parents said they believed me, but
I could hear the tremor in my mom's voice. She
was scared, not of me, but of what this woman

(16:57):
was capable of. And I knew deep down the Vanessa
wasn't anywhere near finished, because the next time she showed
up in my life, she wouldn't be leaving notes or
carving threats. She'd be standing in the middle of my workplace,
in front of everyone. I knew ready to set off
her biggest explosion yet. It was a Wednesday morning, mid September.
I remember because it was supposed to be a normal,

(17:17):
quiet day, just me, a stack of project reports and
a couple of back to back client calls. For the
first time in weeks, I'd woken up without that crushing
sense of dread in my chest. By ten fifteen am,
I was in the conference room, laptop open, running through
a quarterly review with a client over zoom. The blinds
were half open, letting in that kind of soft fall

(17:38):
light that makes you think maybe things are going to
be okay. Then I heard the elevator doors slam open,
not just open, slam. Heavy echoing footsteps followed, quick and purposeful.
I barely registered it at first until I saw my
coworkers' heads turning toward the glass doors of our office.
And then she was there, Vanessa. She walked in like
she owned the place, hair wild, oversized hoodie hanging off

(18:01):
one shoulder, clutching a thick Manila folder under her arm.
Her eyes found mine instantly through the conference room glass,
and the corner of her mouth lifted into this horrible
half smile. John Miller. She called out loud enough for
the entire floor to hear. We need to talk now.
The client on my zoom call froze mid sentence. My
stomach dropped into my shoes. I stood up, hands raised slightly,

(18:23):
trying to keep my voice level. Vanessa, you can't be here.
You need to leave. Oh I'm not going anywhere, she
shot back, striding toward the conference room. Not until everyone
here knows exactly who they're working with. The office was
dead silent, even the phones seemed to stop ringing. She
swung the folder onto the conference table and flipped it
open with a dramatic flourish. Outspilled printed screenshots of her

(18:45):
TikTok videos, fake email threats, the edited mugshots, and, to
my horror, enlarged stills from the photos she'd taken of
me sleeping. This man, she announced, pointing at me, is
a danger to women. He harassed me for months after
I escaped our abusive relationship. He's a stalker, a liar,
and that's enough. My manager, Paul cut in, sharply, stepping

(19:07):
between us. You need to leave before we call security.
Oh call them, she sneered. I'll tell them too. I've
got evidence, and I'm happy to share it with every
single one of your clients. I could feel every pair
of eyes in the office on me. My heart was
pounding so hard I could barely hear Paul speaking over
the rush in my ears. My client was still on zoom,
watching the entire thing unfold. Security finally arrived, two guards

(19:30):
who looked like they'd been plucked straight from a sitcom,
but Vanessa didn't go quietly. As they guided her toward
the door, she yelled over her shoulder, ask him about
the night I almost died. Ask him why the police
keep coming to his apartment. The moment she was gone,
the room seemed to exhale all at once. Paul told
me to take the rest of the day off. I
packed my things in silence, every muscle in my body trembling.

(19:52):
When I got to my car in the garage, there
was a note under the windshield wiper, three words written
in her looping script, This isn't over. The fallout from
that day was brutal. HR called me in first thing
the next morning for a formal conversation about the incident.
They said they understood it was a personal matter, but
they couldn't ignore the disruption It caused several coworkers avoided

(20:12):
me entirely, while others gave me those cautious, sidelong glances
like they weren't sure what to believe. Worse, two clients
emailed my boss saying they needed reassurance before continuing to
work with me. The damage to my reputation wasn't just
personal anymore. It was professional. My lawyer sent her a
cease and desist that same week, adding the office intrusion

(20:33):
to the ongoing harassment case. The detective told me this
would help, that it was yet another documented violation of boundaries,
But deep down I knew Vanessa wouldn't be scared off
by paperwork, and I was right. Two nights later, my
phone buzzed at two forty one am. It was an
unknown number, but the message made my skin crawl. If
I can walk into your office, I can walk into

(20:53):
your home. I didn't sleep after that. I just sat
on my couch in the dark, staring at the front door,
waiting for the knob to turn. From that moment on,
my life wasn't just stressful. It felt like a countdown.
I didn't know to what, but I knew Vanessa was
building towards something bigger, something worse, and when it came,
it wouldn't be in front of my coworkers or online.

(21:13):
It would be somewhere she had complete control, somewhere I
couldn't just walk away. After the office incident, I avoided
any place where she might predictably find me. I stopped
going to my regular coffee shop, took different streets to work,
and even started grocery shopping late at night in stores
on the other side of town. I thought unpredictability would
give me some sense of control. But Vanessa wasn't chasing

(21:34):
me in random places anymore. She was planning. It started
with an email, not from her, at least not directly,
but from a law firm. I didn't recognize. The subject
line read you are g E N T L E
g A L N O T I CE. My stomach
twisted as I opened it. The email claimed I was
required to attend a mediation meeting regarding a matter of

(21:57):
mutual concern between myself and a private party. It said
attendance was mandatory and failure to show could negatively affect
my standing in ongoing legal proceedings. At first, I thought
it might be something my lawyer had arranged without telling me.
So I forwarded it to him. He replied quickly, not
from me, don't go. But then I saw the address.

(22:18):
A shared co working space downtown, not a courthouse, not
a legal office. Something about it gnawed at me. Against
my better judgment. Curiosity and paranoia worked together to convince
me that if I didn't show up, she'd spin it
into another narrative about me running from accountability. So I went.
The co working space was almost empty when I arrived,

(22:38):
except for one receptionist who didn't even look up as
I walked in. I told her the room number from
the email, and she waved me down a hall. When
I opened the door, my blood ran cold. Vanessa was
sitting at the far end of a small conference table,
hands folded a phone on a tripod aimed directly at
the chair opposite her. Well, she said, her smile sharp.
You came. I froze in the doorway. This isn't me.

(23:00):
I'm leaving. You could, she said lightly, but then I'd
just tell everyone you refuse to face me, this is
your chance to explain yourself on record. She tapped the
phone for transparency. I turned to walk out, but before
I could, she spoke again, her voice dropping low. If
you leave, I'll post what I have, all of it,
and it won't matter that it's fake. You know it'll

(23:21):
stick against every instinct. I sat down. For the next
thirty minutes, she went on a performance worthy of a
courtroom drama, accusing me of everything from stealing from her
to endangering her life. She slid evidence across the table,
doctored bank statements, printed text threads where my number appeared
next to threats. I'd never sent even a fake police

(23:41):
incident report. Every time I called out a lie, she'd
tilt her head and smile like she knew something I didn't.
The whole thing wasn't for me. It was for the camera.
She wanted to capture me reacting, getting defensive, looking guilty,
in whatever chopped up version she planned to upload later. Finally,
I stood, we're done here. That's when she pulled the
final card from her bag. She took out a single photo.

(24:03):
It was blurry, grainy, but it looked like me standing
outside her apartment building at night. I can make this
look like stalking, she said softly. Imagine what the Internet
will do with that. I didn't take the bait. I
walked out without another word. My heart pounding so hard
I could barely hear my own footsteps. Two days later,
the video appeared online anyway, cut edited and framed to

(24:25):
make me look like a man caught confessing under pressure.
She'd spliced my words together to form sentences I'd never
actually said. The caption read Finally he admits it. The
comments section was pure chaos. Half the people believed her,
the other half thought it was obviously staged. But that
didn't matter. The damage was in the doubt. That night,

(24:45):
my lawyer told me this had crossed into criminal defamation
territory and that we had enough to push harder for charges.
But he also warned me, the more cornered she feels,
the more dangerous she's going to get. He was right,
because the next time she appeared in my life, it
wasn't behind a camra or through a screen or in
front of my coworkers. It was in a place she
knew I couldn't walk away from, and this time she

(25:07):
had something or someone with her. By this point, every
knock at the door, every unknown number, every flicker of
movement outside my window felt like a threat. But I
still had to live some version of a normal life,
which meant I still went to work, still went to
the grocery store, still tried to exist outside the walls
of my apartment. Vanessa knew this, and she knew exactly

(25:28):
where to strike next. It was a Saturday afternoon, the
kind of day when I'd usually run errands and try
to clear my head. My guard was a little lower.
I wasn't expecting her in broad daylight, in the middle
of a public space. I was halfway through my shopping
at a big box store when I heard a voice
behind me that made my blood turn to ice. Well,
look who it is. I turned, and there she was, Vanessa.

(25:50):
But she wasn't alone. Standing next to her was a
guy I didn't recognize, tall, broad, with a shaved head
and a posture that screamed confrontation. He had one hand
resting on the handle of the shopping cart, the other
tucked in his hoodie pocket. Vanessa was grinning like this
was the most casual, pleasant run in the world. John,
She said, loud enough for nearby shoppers to hear. I

(26:11):
was just telling my friend here about you. She leaned
slightly toward him. This is the one I told you about.
The guy's eyes locked onto mine, cold and steady, Yeah,
he said, I've heard a lot. I glanced around. We
were in the middle of the home, goodsyle people milling past, oblivious.
Leave me alone, I said, keeping my voice even. Vanessa
tilted her head mock offended. What we're just talking unless

(26:35):
you've got something to hide. She pulled her phone from
her pocket, screen already recording. I knew the game. She
wanted me to snap to look aggressive on camera. I
started to push my cart past them, but the guy
stepped into my path. She says you've been harassing her,
he said, following her sending threats. That's not true, I said, firmly,
and you both need to move. Vanessa chuckled this low,

(26:56):
ugly sound. It's not harassment when it's the truth. John.
Then she raised her voice, projecting, for the benefit of
anyone with an earshot, you think you can get away
with what you did to me. A woman pushing a
stroller glanced our way. A store employee slowed down, looking uncertain.
I could feel the attention shifting toward us, the tension building.
I took a step back, not because I was afraid

(27:17):
of him, though I was, but because I could see
how quickly this could escalate into something I couldn't undo.
I'm leaving, I said, Vanessa smirked. Go ahead, I've got
this all on video. Everyone's going to see how you
just happened to show up wherever I am. I pushed past,
my hands, gripping the cart so hard my knuckles hurt.
I didn't look back, but I could hear her laughing

(27:37):
behind me. That laugh stayed with me the entire drive home.
When I pulled into my parking lot, I noticed a
car I didn't recognize parked across the street, black sedan,
tinted windows. I sat in my car for a moment watching.
After a few minutes, it drove off. Paranoia told me
it was them. That night, the first text came in
from an unknown number. Nice shopping trip today, you looked nervous.

(28:00):
Then another, you should be nervous. I forwarded the messages
to my lawyer and the detective. The detective told me
this was enough to file for a no contact order,
especially with the store cameras likely catching the interaction, but
he also warned me it might take weeks for the
court to process it. Those weeks were hell. I started
seeing the black sedan more often once parked outside my gym,

(28:21):
another time idling near the corner of my block. Every
time it would drive off. As soon as I noticed,
packages started showing up at my door again. One contained
a brick wrapped in duct tape, another a dead bouquet
of flowers with a note that read for the funeral.
The worst came one night, just after midnight. I was
lying in bed, scrolling mindlessly on my phone when my
apartment buzzer went off. My stomach dropped. I froze, waiting

(28:45):
to see if it was just a drunk neighbor, but
then it buzzed again and again, relentless. Finally I grabbed
my phone and opened the building security app. The camera
feed showed Vanessa standing at the front door, her friend
from the store beside her. She was holding a large
one waving it toward the camera like she was offering
a gift. I didn't move, I didn't speak. After a

(29:06):
few minutes they left. In the morning, the envelope was
still there. Inside were a stack of printed screenshots, all fakes,
all showing me supposedly sending violent threats. Each page was
labeled copy for the court. That was the day I
realized Vanessa had no intention of stopping until she either
got me arrested or destroyed me completely. And she was
getting closer to succeeding, because two days later, I got

(29:29):
a call from the detective John. He said, his voice tight,
I need you to come down to the station now.
We have a situation. Whatever hope i'd been holding on
to that the truth would eventually win started to slip
through my fingers, because if Vanessa had finally convinced the
police to pull me in, it meant she'd crossed another line,
one that might be impossible to come back from. The

(29:50):
call from the detective didn't sound like a request, it
sounded like a summons. I barely had time to grab
my jacket before heading to the station, my mind cycling
through every possible stit scenario. Had Vanessa filed some new complaint,
had she gotten someone else to lie for her, or
had she finally managed to fake something convincing enough to
get me booked. When I arrived, the detective Ramirez was

(30:11):
waiting in the lobby. His usual calm demeanor was replaced
with something sharper, not quite anger, but definitely urgency. He
motioned for me to follow him into a small interview room,
the kind with a table bolted to the floor and
a camera in the corner. John, he began leaning forward.
I need you to listen carefully before you react. This morning,
we received an anonymous drop off at the front desk.

(30:32):
It was a USB drive, along with a handwritten note
claiming it contained proof you've been planning an attack on Vanessa.
I felt the blood drain from my face planning an attack.
That's insane, I know, Ramira said quickly, but I have
to tell you. The files on that drive are bad,
really bad. He slid a folder across the table. Inside
were printed screenshots of what looked like a private chat log,

(30:55):
my name and photo at the top, filled with violent threats,
detailed plans for getting even even mentions of specific dates
in places. There was also an audio file supposedly of
me speaking, saying things I'd never said in my life.
They used voice cloning, Ramirez explained. We'll get it analyzed,
but the problem is to anyone who doesn't know how

(31:15):
easy this tech is to fake, it looks real. The
note that came with the USB was short and chilling.
This is your last chance to stop him before he
hurt someone. No signature, but the handwriting was unmistakable Vanessa's looping,
deliberate script. My lawyer arrived within the hour, his face
tight with controlled fury. This is manufactured, he told Ramirez.

(31:35):
You know it. I know it, but the problem is
the optics. If this gets into the wrong hands before
we disprove it, my client's life is over. Ramirez nodded grimly.
We're not arresting you, not yet, but I need you
to understand how close this came. Another officer might not
have given you the benefit of the doubt that not
yet lodged itself in my chest like a splinter. I

(31:55):
left the station feeling like I was walking on a
tightrope over a drop I couldn't survive. Every step felt
like it could be the one that sent me falling.
Over the next few days, the pressure mounted. Vanessa posted
another video, this time claiming she was working with the
authorities to bring a dangerous man to justice. She didn't
show the fake evidence, but she didn't have to. The
implication was enough. People started commenting things like he's going

(32:19):
down soon and finally she'll be safe. Then came the tale.
I first noticed him outside my apartment, a man in
plane clothes pretending to scroll through his phone, but always
within sight. The next day, he was parked across from
my office. Whether he was police or someone Vanessa had hired,
I didn't know. All I knew was that my every
move was being watched. It all came to a head

(32:40):
one Thursday night. I just left my office when Ramirez
called John, I need you to go somewhere public right now.
Do not go home. My heart started racing. Why what's happening?
There's chatter, he said carefully. Someone reported seeing you lurking
outside Vanessa's building tonight. I know it's not true. I
just saw you leave work on the street cams, but

(33:00):
others don't know that. I'm trying to get ahead of it.
I ducked into a crowded cafe, my hands shaking so
hard I nearly dropped my phone. From my seat by
the window, I could see the black sedan again, idling
across the street. That's when I realized the truth. Vanessa
wasn't just trying to ruin my reputation anymore. She was
trying to set up a situation where the police would
have no choice but to arrest me. And with the

(33:21):
fake voice recordings, the forged chat logs, and her growing
online following she was getting dangerously close to pulling it off.
The next morning, my lawyer filed for an emergency hearing
to address the no contact order and present all the
evidence of her harassment. It was scheduled for the following week.
I thought I just had to hold out until then.
But Vanessa wasn't going to wait, because three days before

(33:43):
that hearing, she made her boldest move yet, one that
brought everything crashing down in front of more witnesses than
I could have ever imagined, and this time there would
be video from half a dozen different angles. Three days
before the hearing, I was doing everything I could to
keep my head down. I'd arranged my work schedule so
I could come and go during off hours. I'd cut
off social media entirely, and I barely spoke to anyone

(34:05):
who wasn't my lawyer or my parents. I thought, maybe,
just maybe, if I kept quiet, Vanessa would have nothing
new to use against me before court. I underestimated her.
It was a Sunday afternoon. The air was crisp, the
kind of late autumn day when the sun feels thin
but the sky is bright. I decided to walk to
a bookstore downtown. It was only a few blocks from

(34:26):
my apartment, and I needed to feel like a normal
person again, if only for an hour. I had just
reached the edge of the main square when I saw
the crowd. At first, I thought it was some kind
of street performance, a cluster of people gathered in front
of the fountain, phones held high. But then I heard
her voice, Vanessa. She was standing on the low edge
of the fountain, holding a microphone connected to a small

(34:47):
portable speaker. In front of her was a tall man
with a DSLR camera filming everything. Beside him, a woman
held up a large sign with my full name printed
in black block letters. And then I saw it, a
blown up photo of me, the same grainy image she'd
shown me during that fake mediation, the one she claimed
proved I was outside her apartment at night. This, she

(35:08):
shouted into the mic, her voice echoing across the square,
is the man who has stalked me for months. This
is the man the police refused to stop. And I'm
here today to warn every single one of you, because
if the system won't protect women, we have to protect
each other. I froze. People were already turning their heads
toward me. She'd spotted me and was pointing right at
where I stood. That's him, she yelled, right there, look

(35:30):
at him, pretending to be innocent. The crowd shifted, some
people moved closer, phones raised, others just stared. I could
feel my chest tightening, heat rising up the back of
my neck. Sir, is this true? A woman in the
crowd called out, are you following her right now? I
opened my mouth to speak, but Vanessa jumped in before
I could. Of course, he's here. He can't stand the

(35:52):
idea of me speaking my truth without trying to intimidate me.
This is exactly what he does. He shows up, he stares,
he scares her. Cameraman had already turned the lens on me,
and I knew what was happening. No matter what I said,
no matter how I looked, it would be edited later
to fit her story. Leave me alone, I said, loudly,
trying to keep my voice steady. You know this isn't true, Vanessa.

(36:14):
You've been harassing me for months. She let out this
mocking laugh. Oh, the poor abuser is the real victim. Now, huh,
that's the oldest trick in the book. Someone in the
crowd muttered, yeah, I've heard that before, and another person
said we should call the cops. That's when she pulled
out her prop, the Manila folder. She opened it and
began waving sheets of paper at the audience. Here's proof,

(36:35):
printed messages, emails, photos, all from him. From where I stood,
I could see the same forged threats, the doctored screenshots,
the fake police reports. This is harassment, I shouted back.
Every single thing you're holding is fabricated. Liar, she screamed,
and then, as if on cue, the black sedan pulled
up along the curb, the same one I'd been seeing

(36:57):
for weeks. The passenger door opened and outstepped her friend
from the store, the tall, broad guy with the shaved head.
He walked right up behind me, close enough that I
could feel the heat coming off him. You should leave,
he said, quietly, low enough that only I could hear.
You're outnumbered here. Vanessa saw him and turned her voice
to the crowd again. Even now he's got back up

(37:18):
here to intimidate me. Do you all see this? Do
you see what I've been living with? The square had
turned into a stage, and I was trapped in the
middle of it. Every instinct told me to walk away,
but I knew what that would look like in her edit,
the guilty man fleeing the scene. I looked around for
an ally, a witness, anyone who might recognize this for
what it was. That's when I spotted a uniformed police

(37:38):
officer making his way across the square. For a brief second,
relief washed over me. Surely this would end it. But
then Vanessa turned to him and shouted, officer, this is
the man I filed complaints about. He's here right now,
violating the order. There was no order yet, we were
days away from the hearing, but she said it like
it was a fact. The officer paused, scanning between us, unsure, Sir,

(38:01):
he said to me, I'm going to need you to
step over here with me for a moment. And that's
when it hit me. This was the moment she'd been
building toward. The audience, the cameras, the props, the sudden
arrival of law enforcement, all of it was designed to
make me look like I was caught red handed. I
had seconds to decide whether to stay and argue or
walk into whatever trap she'd set for me next. And
the decision I made in that moment, well that's when

(38:23):
things truly exploded. The officer's request hung in the air
like a threat. Every eye in the square was on me.
Vanessa was watching with that calculated expression, half fury, half anticipation,
like she was already picturing the thumbnail for her next
viral video. I forced myself to move slowly, deliberately. As
I walked toward the officer, my lawyer's voice echoed in

(38:45):
my head. Don't run, don't raise your voice, don't give
them anything they can use. The officer guided me a
few steps away from the crowd. We've had reports. He began, cautiously,
that you've been harassing this woman. I know what she
told you, I said, evenly, harassment case open against her.
Everything she's saying is fabricated. I can prove it. I

(39:05):
have documentation, police reports, and security Footed behind him, I
could see Vanessa still performing for the crowd, holding up
her fake evidence like a prosecutor delivering a closing argument.
People were nodding, murmuring, phones still recording. Look, I said,
lowering my voice. I'm not here to cause trouble. I
was just walking to the bookstore when I saw this.

(39:27):
She spotted me first and turned it into a spectacle.
The officer studied me for a moment, then glanced towards Vanessa.
I'm going to need you to stay here while I
talk to her, he said. He left me standing there,
the tall shaved headguy still hovering nearby, his arms folded,
eyes locked on me. Every time I shifted my weight,
he took a small step closer, crowding my space without

(39:47):
quite touching me. Then I heard it, Vanessa's voice rising again,
this time pitched high with fake desperation. Officer, he's dangerous,
he's violated the order before. He's here, Now you have
to take him in. My heart was pounding. There was
no order yet, and she knew it, but the people
around us didn't. I could feel their judgment like heat
on my skin. The officer came back, sir, I'm not

(40:09):
detaining you, he said, carefully, but I strongly suggest you
leave the area immediately for everyone's safety. And that was
the moment Vanessa pounced. See he's being escorted away because
he's guilty, she shouted, loud enough for the whole square.
The crowd erupted, some booed, others yelled things I won't repeat.
I wanted to fight back, to shout the truth at them.

(40:30):
But I knew it would be pointless. Instead, I turned
and walked away, every step feeling heavier than the last.
Phones tracked me as I left, capturing the exact image
Vanessa wanted me retreating while she stood triumphant in front
of the fountain. I didn't look back, but I could
still hear her voice carrying over the square. We protect women,
We believe survivors. We don't let monsters walk free. By

(40:52):
the time I got home, clips from the scene were
already circulating online. Some accounts had edited it to make
it look like I'd been physically removed by Others were
tagging my name alongside words like predator and stalker. My
phone was buzzing NonStop with messages from unknown numbers, threats, insults,
demands that I confess. I sent the raw footage from

(41:13):
the bookstore street cameras to my lawyer. They showed me
walking into the square after she was already there, clearly
not approaching her until she pointed me out. We also
had clear audio from bystanders phones capturing her shouting about
an order that didn't exist. Three days later, in court,
my lawyer presented everything, the forged documents, the fake emails,

(41:33):
the doctored audio, and now the footage from the square.
The judge's expression hardened more with every new piece of evidence.
When it was Vanessa's turn to speak, she started with
her usual fire, but it fizzled fast under questioning. The
inconsistencies piled up, and when my lawyer played the uncut recordings,
her confidence cracked. For the first time in months, I
saw something in her eyes that looked like fear. By

(41:56):
the end of the hearing, the judge granted a full
restraining order against her immediate and enforcible. The criminal investigation
into her harassment and falsified evidence was officially opened. It
didn't undo the damage to my reputation, it didn't erase
the months of stress, fear, and humiliation, but it was
the first real win I'd had since this nightmare began.

(42:16):
As I left the court house, I caught a glimpse
of her on the sidewalk, flanked by her cameraman and
the shaved head guy. She didn't shout, she didn't even
look at me. She just watched me walk away, and
for the first time, she was the one who didn't
follow