I loaned my best friend $6,400 when he said he was drowning. He promised to pay back the money I’d scraped together for my future but ghosted me for months. Yesterday, I got a message that proved karma doesn’t stay silent. She just waits for the perfect moment.
The phone rang at 11:47 p.m. on a Tuesday. My buddy Kyle’s name flashed across my screen.
“Alan, man, I’m in deep trouble.” His voice cracked like glass hitting concrete.
I sat up in bed. Kyle never called this late unless something was seriously wrong.
A man sitting on his bed and staring at his phone | Source: Freepik
“What happened, man?”
“My car got totaled tonight. Some drunk idiot ran a red light.” Kyle was breathing hard, almost hyperventilating. “Insurance won’t cover the full amount. I need $6,400 by Friday or I lose everything.”
My stomach dropped. “Kyle, that’s…”
“I know it’s a lot, man. But I got this new gig driving for a rideshare company. Plus the warehouse job on weekends. Without a car, I’d lose both jobs. I’m completely screwed, Alan.”
A stressed man engaged on a phonecall | Source: Pexels
I stared at the water stain on my ceiling. That money was sitting in my savings account… every single penny of it. It was my escape fund from this basement apartment where the pipes leaked and the neighbors screamed at 3 a.m.
“I’ll pay you back in three months max. I swear on my mother’s grave. You know I’m good for it,” Kyle pleaded.
The silence stretched between us like a tightrope.
“Please, man. You’re literally the only person I can ask.”
An anxious man talking on the phone | Source: Pexels
I closed my eyes and saw my future slipping away. “I’ll wire it tomorrow morning.”
“Alan, I love you, man. You’re saving my life.”
***
The bank teller’s fingers clicked across her keyboard. Each keystroke felt like a nail in my coffin.
“Six thousand four hundred dollars to Kyle?”
“Yes.”
She slid the receipt across the marble counter. My account balance stared back at me: $127.43.
A man holding a marker and a piece of paper | Source: Pexels
My phone buzzed immediately. A text from Kyle:
“Dude, you’re a lifesaver. I love you, man. Three months, I promise.”
I walked back to my basement apartment in a daze. Water dripped from the ceiling into a plastic bucket. The sound echoed like a metronome counting down my misery.
But Kyle was my best friend. We’d known each other since freshman year at Riverside College. I helped him move four times. I even lent him my car for job interviews. We were like brothers.
“Three months!” I whispered to the moldy walls.
An anxious man holding a pillow and sitting up on the bed | Source: Freepik
Month one…
Me: “Hey man, just checking in. How’s the job going?”
Kyle: “Good, good. Still getting my feet under me. Should have some cash for you soon.”
Month two…
Me: “Kyle, any update on when you might be able to start paying me back?”
Kyle: “Things are still pretty tight right now. Give me another few weeks.”
By month three, I was a bit nervous about my money and Kyle’s promise.
Me: “Dude, it’s been exactly three months.”
Kyle: “I know, I know. I’m working on it, man. Just had some unexpected expenses.”
A frustrated man holding his phone | Source: Freepik
I texted back again a few weeks later: “Kyle, seriously, I need to know what’s going on.”
His reply came about five hours later: “Chill out, man. You’ll get your money.”
Week sixteen: “Kyle?”
My texts turned blue and stayed unread. And all my calls went straight to voicemail.
“This is Kyle. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Except he didn’t get back to me. Not once.
A phone on the table | Source: Pexels
I was eating cereal for dinner again when I saw it. Kyle’s Instagram story popped up on my feed.
A crystal blue ocean. White sand. A cocktail with a little umbrella. And a caption that soared my blood pressure:
“Living my best life in Sunset Bay! Grind now, shine later 💸🔥“
My spoon clattered into the bowl and milk splashed across the table.
Grind now? He was grinding alright. Grinding my trust into dust.
More photos followed. New chrome rims on his car. Dinner at Marino’s, the fancy Italian place downtown. Designer sneakers that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
A man sporting branded shoes and standing beside a car | Source: Unsplash
I screenshot every single post. Not for evidence. For torture.
Each image was a knife twist. While I was eating ramen noodles for the fourth night in a row, Kyle was posting selfies with lobster tails and champagne glasses.
“You okay?” my coworker Jim asked one afternoon. “You look like someone stole your dog.”
“Worse,” I muttered. “Someone stole my future.”
***
Five months passed. Then six. Then seven.
I stopped checking Kyle’s social media. I blocked his number. I told myself to let it go.
A disheartened man | Source: Pexels
“Karma will handle it,” I whispered to my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror.
But karma felt like a myth. A fairy tale adults told themselves to sleep better at night.
Kyle was out there living his best life while I scraped pennies together for groceries. The universe didn’t seem interested in justice.
Until yesterday.
I was debugging a code at my desk when my phone buzzed with a bank notification:
“Incoming Wire Transfer: $10,100.00.
Sender: Kyle.”
My coffee mug slipped from my hand. It shattered on the floor, sending brown liquid across my shoes.
Ten thousand one hundred dollars? My hands were shaking as I checked my account. The money was really there.
A shocked man | Source: Freepik
My phone buzzed again.
Kyle (freaking out like he’d just hit the wrong button on a bomb): “DUDE! I SENT YOU MONEY BY MISTAKE. SEND IT BACK NOW!!”
I read the message three times. My heart pounded like a caged bird trying to escape.
A string of buzzes followed: “Alan, please! That money was for my car payment, man!”
“I’m serious, man. Send it back!”
“My account’s gonna overdraft if you don’t send it back!”
“DON’T BE PETTY ABOUT THIS!”
Petty? I almost threw my phone across the room.
A man looking at his phone | Source: Unsplash
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. For one wild moment, I imagined keeping it all. Ten grand would change everything. New apartment. New life. Sweet, sweet revenge.
But then I looked at myself on my black computer screen. Hollow eyes. Stubble. The same wrinkled shirt I’d worn twice this week.
I wasn’t Kyle.
I opened my banking app and transferred $3,600 back to him. I kept the exact amount he owed me, plus a little interest for emotional damages.
Then I typed: “I don’t need what isn’t mine. I’m not like you. We’re even now.”
My finger hesitated over the send button for exactly three seconds.
Then I hit send and blocked his number before he could respond.
A man using his phone | Source: Unsplash
Within minutes, I had five missed calls from unknown numbers. Kyle was trying to reach me from different phones.
I blocked those too.
The next morning, my mutual friend, Derek, called.
“Dude, Kyle’s going around telling everyone you stole from him.”
I laughed. “What’s he saying?”
“That you kept money that belonged to him. But here’s the thing… he told me months ago that you gave him that money as a gift.”
A man holding hundred dollar bills | Source: Unsplash
“A gift? A gift I asked him about 20 times?”
“That’s what I told him. Nobody’s buying his story, man. We all know what really happened.”
After Derek hung up, I made myself breakfast for the first time in months. Real breakfast. Not cereal.
My phone kept buzzing with messages from mutual friends.
“Saw Kyle’s post. What a joke.”
“Don’t worry, nobody believes him.”
Kyle owed half our friend group money. I wasn’t his first victim.
A man talking on the telephone while holding money | Source: Pexels
This morning, I put down the deposit on my new apartment. Yeah… my apartment. The $6,400 had finally given me enough for a security deposit and first month’s rent.
I’d found a one-bedroom in Riverside Heights with windows that let in ample sunlight. No more dripping pipes. No more screaming neighbors. No more eating cereal for dinner while my best friend posted vacation photos.
My phone rang this morning. Unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Alan, it’s Kyle.”
I almost hung up. Almost.
A man staring at his laptop while talking on the phone | Source: Pexels
“I’m sorry, okay? I know I messed up.”
“You’ve got 30 seconds.”
“Things got complicated. I was embarrassed about how long it was taking…”
“Embarrassed enough to post vacation photos while I ate ramen every night?”
“Look, I can explain everything.”
“Save it. We’re even now. Stay out of my life.”
I hung up and blocked the number.
An annoyed man looking at his phone | Source: Freepik
The universe has a funny way of keeping score. It took nearly eight months and one accidentally sent wire transfer, but karma finally showed up to work.
Kyle thought he could take my money and disappear into his Instagram fantasy. He thought friendship was disposable. That trust was renewable.
He was wrong on all counts.
Some mistakes cost $6,400. Others cost everything else.
I learned the difference between a friend and a user. Between loyalty and stupidity. And between karma and justice.
A statue of Lady Justice | Source: Pexels
Sometimes karma just needs a little help from a misplaced wire transfer and a man who’s finally tired of being taken advantage of.
“Grind now, shine later?” I whispered to my reflection. “No, Kyle. Grind always. Shine forever. And never, ever trust a thief with your future!”
The afternoon sun streamed through my clean windows. And for the first time in eight months, I felt like I could breathe.
Karma doesn’t wear a watch, and she doesn’t send warning texts. But when she shows up with a wire transfer and a wakeup call, she’s always right on time.
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