When did you realize your best friend was a psycho?
The Trap Tightens
The movement was so ingrained she didn’t even realize she was doing it. I chose to run, yanking my arm free. I sprinted toward my car, and my purse fell in the struggle as Dia grabbed for me again, spilling its contents across the concrete.
She let it fall, more interested in maintaining her performance for security. Dia called after the guard,
“Please don’t let her drive in this state. I’m so worried about her mental health. She’s been getting worse for months.”
I made it to my car and locked the doors, my hands shaking as I started the engine. In the rearview mirror, I could see Dia talking animatedly with security, gesturing toward my car with concern while cradling my abandoned purse like a worried friend would.
It wasn’t until I was three blocks away that I felt the weight in my jacket pocket. My fingers found smooth metal and plastic: a medical alert bracelet I’d never seen before, engraved with my name and a list of conditions: severe eczema, prone to delusions during flare-ups. The emergency contact listed was Dia Patel.
The False Medical History
The welts on my arm were spreading, the burning sensation intensifying with each passing minute. I needed medical attention, but going to the hospital meant risking another encounter with Dia’s carefully laid groundwork.
Still, I had no choice; the reaction was getting worse. I drove to the nearest urgent care, trying to ignore how my skin felt like it was crawling with invisible insects. I approached the reception desk, cradling my inflamed arm. The receptionist looked up with a practiced smile that faltered when she saw my arm. She said,
“Oh my, let me get you checked in quickly. Name?”
I gave my information, watching her type. Her expression shifted to recognition, and my stomach dropped. She said, scrolling through her screen,
“I see you’re already in our system. Dr. Chen’s patient, right? He’s mentioned your case: severe eczema with psychological components.”
Dr. Chen was Dia’s dermatologist, the one she’d been seeing for years and who she talked about like he was a miracle worker. Somehow, I was already listed as his patient.
“There must be a mistake,”
I started, but she was already printing forms. She said,
“No mistake. You’ve been in our system for months. I see here you’ve had prescriptions filled at three different pharmacies; your insurance has been covering the treatments.”
She handed me a clipboard and told me,
“Just update any information that’s changed.”
The intake form showed a complete medical history I’d never provided: chronic eczema since childhood, multiple failed treatments, and a tendency toward medical delusion during flare-ups. The emergency contact was Dia Patel, and the secondary contact was Marcus Chen, my boyfriend, but with Dia’s last name attached.
A Narrative Out of Control
Forty minutes later, I was finally in an examination room. The actual doctor—not Dr. Chen, thankfully—was concerned about the welts and the obvious allergic reaction. She was asking about possible exposure to industrial chemicals when the door opened. The nurse explained, ushering Dia in,
“I’m sorry, I know you said no visitors, but this is her emergency contact. She’s been so worried.”
Thank God you’re getting help, Dia said, setting my purse on the chair. She told me,
“I brought your things. I know how you get during episodes. Remember, I’m here to support you through this.”
The doctor looked between us, clearly trying to assess the situation. I could see her noting Dia’s calm demeanor versus my agitated state—the way Dia positioned herself as the caring friend while I looked paranoid and unstable.
My phone buzzed with a text from Marcus:
“Why is Dia calling me crying? She says ‘You’re having a breakdown’ and attacked her in the parking garage. What’s going on? I’m coming to get you.”
More texts flooded in from my mother, my father, and my boss, all getting calls or messages from Dia about my deteriorating mental health and her deep concern for my well-being.
Strategic Audience
“I need to go,”
I said, standing up despite the doctor’s protests. The detail about the security guard having psoriasis patches shows how Dia picked her audience perfectly—someone who would naturally side with her about skin conditions.
The welts were spreading up to my shoulder now, but staying meant letting Dia control the narrative even more. The doctor insisted,
“You can’t leave without treatment. These welts need attention.”
Dia said softly, her voice full of practiced sorrow,
“She does this. Refuses treatment, won’t take her medications. I’ve been trying to help her for months, but she’s convinced I’m trying to hurt her. It’s heartbreaking to watch your best friend struggle like this.”
I grabbed my purse and pushed past them both, Dia’s performance continuing behind me as I fled.
The Digital Footprint
In the parking lot, I sat in my car checking my phone. The damage was spreading as fast as the welts on my arm. My Instagram had been flooded with targeted ads for eczema treatments, skincare routines, and support groups for chronic skin conditions.
Groups I’d never joined showed me as a member for months. Posts I’d never made documented a journey with eczema I’d never experienced. An email from my boss asked about the accommodation requests that had been submitted on my behalf.
They mentioned light sensitivity from my skin condition, the need for frequent breaks to apply medications, and flexible scheduling for flare-ups. All were signed with digital signatures that looked close enough to mine to pass casual inspection.
I drove home in a daze, the welts finally starting to respond to the antihistamine I’d found in my purse. My apartment building came into view, and I saw my elderly neighbor watering the plants outside.
The Neighbor’s Devoted Friend
She waved when she saw me, her face brightening. She called out,
“Feeling better, dear? That sweet friend of yours has been so helpful, watering your plants while you’ve been sick. Such a devoted girl, coming by every week even when you weren’t home.”
Plants? I didn’t have any plants. But looking up at my balcony, I could see them now—a row of potted flowers and herbs I’d never purchased, never watered, and never wanted.
Dia had been in my apartment weekly. She had convinced my neighbor I’d been sick and had created a whole narrative I knew nothing about.
My hands shook as I changed the locks that evening. It was the third time in six months, but now I understood why the previous changes hadn’t worked.
Infiltrating My Life
As I removed the old lock, I checked every possible hiding spot: behind the electrical meter, under the doormat, inside the light fixture. I found the spare key taped inside the meter box, wrapped in plastic with a note in Dia’s handwriting:
“For emergencies, D.”
How many copies had she made? How many times had she been inside while I slept? My parents called while I was installing the new deadbolt. I could hear the worry in my mother’s voice before she even spoke. She said,
“Sweetheart, Dia sent us some articles about supporting adult children with delusional paracytosis. She’s very concerned about you. She says, ‘You think your skin is contaminated?'”
I tried to explain, but how could I? Every word made me sound more unstable. My best friend was systematically infiltrating my life, but describing it out loud sounded like paranoid delusion.
The Stalker Reframing
The welts on my arm had faded to pink marks that could have been anything. Without proof, I was just a woman afraid of her childhood friend.
That night I sat on my couch with my laptop trying to document everything. But as I scrolled through my social media, I realized the depth of Dia’s campaign.
There were tagged photos at doctor’s offices I’d never visited, check-ins at pharmacies where I’d supposedly filled prescriptions—a whole digital footprint of an illness I didn’t have. My phone rang. Marcus said,
“Marcus, I’m at your door. We need to talk about what happened today. Dia is really worried about you and honestly, so am I.”
I let him in, watching his face as he took in the new locks, the way I’d moved furniture to block potential entry points, and the notebook where I’d been documenting Dia’s actions. His expression grew more concerned with each detail. He said, sitting carefully on the couch like I might spook,
“She called me crying for an hour. She says you attacked her in the parking garage, that you’ve been getting worse for months but refused to admit you need help.”
