When my best friend Kyle begged for $6,400 to replace his totaled car, I didn’t hesitate. He said he’d lose both his jobs without it, and I believed him.
That money was all I had—my escape fund from a moldy basement apartment—but friendship mattered more.
“Three months,” he swore. “I’ll pay you back in full.” But as the months dragged on, his texts grew colder,
then disappeared. He stopped answering my calls, and soon enough, I was watching his Instagram stories of beach vacations, luxury dinners, and designer sneakers—paid for, I realized, with my sacrifice.
By the seventh month, I’d blocked him everywhere and tried to move on.
I told myself karma would catch up with him—though it felt more like a fantasy than fate.
Then one quiet afternoon, my phone buzzed: Incoming Wire Transfer: $10,100 from Kyle.
My hands shook. Seconds later, a string of frantic texts came in: “That was a mistake! Send it back NOW!” The irony was delicious.
The man who vanished with my money was now begging me not to take his.
I didn’t hesitate. I sent back exactly what wasn’t mine—$3,600—keeping the $6,400 he owed, plus a little interest for the emotional hell he put me through.
My final message read: “We’re even now. I’m not like you.” I blocked his number for good. Minutes later,
mutual friends confirmed he’d been lying for months, calling my loan a “gift.” But now,
no one was buying his version of the story. His credibility? Gone. Mine? Crystal clear.
The next morning, I put down a deposit on my new apartment—sunny windows, no leaky pipes,
and not a trace of Kyle in sight. That one accidental transfer gave me more than my money back.
It gave me closure, confidence, and a front-row seat to karma’s perfect timing.
Some debts don’t just get paid—they get settled.
