'My fiancé faked an illness to keep me from leaving her.'

Kiera* and I were the life of every party, partners in crime who could turn any night into something wild and unforgettable. For years, it felt like the perfect balance: the thrill, the freedom, the reckless joy of youth.

Her self-confidence was contagious, she made me brave. Brave enough to dance in public, brave enough to be myself, brave enough to come out to my dad.

"Emma, you know I'll love you and accept you no matter what," he told me.

We were both 22, full of fire and fueled by cheap tequila shots on Oxford Street when we met. Back then, we were two peas in a pod, partners in crime, and fearless as anything. I remember thinking, "This girl gets me."

We partied our life away for nearly a decade. But life catches up with you. Suddenly, those nights that used to feel endless start to feel exhausting, and the hangovers become harder to ignore.

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Something shifted in me. I started wanting more than just a blur of loud music and early mornings. I wanted quieter nights, more stability, less drama. To me, the next step was engagement - a commitment that felt like we were growing up together.

Keira accepted my proposal and I thought she was on the same page, but she remained a one-woman festival, always looking for the next adventure, always up for the next wild story.

Our paths started to feel like they were diverging, and without the party scene, I began to see how little we had in common. The excitement that had once held us together started to feel hollow.

I'd be talking about my day, about work, maybe even a little about the future, and she'd be off in her own world, eyes glazing over at the mention of anything that didn't involve some kind of adventure. And when I tried to talk about it, she'd brush it off, make jokes, anything to avoid an actual conversation. I tried to ignore it for as long as I could, but it got to the point where I couldn't avoid it anymore.

I had this whole speech planned out, down to the very last word. I was going to tell her that I loved her, but that we just weren't right for each other anymore. I was ready to rip the Band-Aid off and just deal with the fallout. But when I started talking, before I could even get two sentences out, she grabbed my hand, looked me dead in the eye, and told me she was sick. Terminally sick. I could barely breathe as she explained it, all the big, scary words coming at me in slow motion. Brain cancer. Terminal. A few months, maybe a year.

It was like the ground had opened up beneath me. I didn't even know what to say, so I just held her and promised that I would be there for her. I put everything aside and went into this weird autopilot mode, focusing on what she needed, how I could help. Suddenly, all the doubts I'd been having didn't matter. She needed me, and I wasn't about to walk away.

The next few months were a haze of doctor's appointments – which she always attended alone, support groups, late nights holding her while she cried. And yet, something always felt off. For one thing, there were never any test results, no scans, nothing concrete.

I thought maybe she just didn't want to share those things with me, that it was her way of coping. But then there were the days when she'd be perfectly fine, bouncing around like her usual self, talking about her bucket list and all the things she wanted to do. I'd ask her about her treatments, about how she was feeling, and she'd brush it off with a casual shrug and a, "Oh, you know, some days are better than others.

Kiera's mum is the one who told me the truth. My darling fiancé had confessed to her sister that she'd gotten in too deep with this lie and didn't know what to do. Her sister, just a teenager was burdened with knowing the truth and went to their mum to ask for advice.

At first, Kiera denied it and tried to make me feel like I was losing my mind.

She had the nerve to say: "You're so insecure that you're projecting your crazy onto me!"

But I wasn't backing down. After what felt like hours of arguing, she finally broke down and admitted it. The whole thing had been a lie. Every last word.

She sat there, crying, saying that she'd done it because she knew I was pulling away, that she was scared to lose me. She was hysterical, begging and pleading for forgiveness. But all I felt was numb. This woman, the one I thought I knew so well, had lied to me in the most horrible, gut-wrenching way possible. She had played on my sympathy, used my love for her like it was a bargaining chip, a way to keep me trapped.

I moved through the stages of grief and lingered in rage for a while. The breakup was turmoil but I remained resolute in my decision to leave.

I don't know if I'll ever fully recover from what she did. I think about it sometimes, about how someone can turn into something so twisted, something so unrecognisable. But I also know that I'm better off without her, that I deserve someone who doesn't need to resort to lies to keep me close.

*Name has been changed due to privacy.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but remained anonymous for privacy purposes.

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