"Trust is like glass. Once broken, you can try to piece it back together, but the cracks always show. In the span of two years, I've watched that glass shatter twice. This is the story of how two people I called friends dismantled not just my trust, but years of my professional work."
The past couple of days have been rough—like, really rough. Someone I trusted deeply, someone I called a friend, betrayed me. Again. This is the second time in my life that I've experienced something like this, and honestly, it still stings just as much.
Let me take you back to my first experience.
About a year and a half ago, I had this small side project—just a little zombie-themed platform. It wasn’t anything huge, but it had about 4,000 users. The project ran quietly in the background; I wasn’t actively updating it. One day, one of my closest friends reached out, saying he wanted to help improve it. He asked for permission to contribute, to make it better.
I trusted him.
I gave him access—not just to the project, but also to my Gmail and accounts connected to it. Everything seemed fine until, one morning, I woke up and realized I'd lost access to all of it. Every account. Every domain. Gone.
He transferred everything into his own account. Then, to make things worse, I found out months later that he sold the website. I don't know how much he made, but the betrayal hit me harder than any number ever could.
That experience changed me. Or so I thought.
But here I am, a year and a half later, facing another betrayal. I should've learned my lesson, right? Trusting people blindly comes at a cost. But part of me still wants to believe in people, even when history tries to teach me otherwise.
Was it worth it? Those two years of friendship for… what? A website? A few bucks?
After my first experience with betrayal, I stopped trusting people. For a long time, I built walls around myself, refusing to let anyone get too close. But slowly, I started to open up again.
About seven or eight months ago, I began working on a small project. I was facing problems with my service provider, so I decided to create a better alternative for myself. It was meant to be private and for my personal use only. Initially, I hesitated to involve anyone due to memories of past betrayals, but eventually, I let someone I trusted into the project
He was dealing with the same kinds of problems, so I shared access to my platform with him. Over time, he started encouraging me to turn this project into something bigger. "You could make this a startup idea," he said. That idea sparked something in me, and together, we started building a small company.
For the past six months, this project became my life. My daily routine was built around it: waking up, committing code, reviewing contributions from others, and making improvements. On average, I made at least 10 commits a day. I wanted this to succeed more than anything.
Then, two days ago—on January 15th—I woke up to find myself locked out of everything. Every account. Every access point. Gone.
I reached out to other friends I had invited to the project, only to find they had also lost access. Confused and panicked, I tried messaging him, the one person I thought I could trust. But my messages went unanswered. Then I checked other platforms and realized he had blocked me everywhere.
It felt like déjà vu. Another friend, another betrayal.
Honestly, I don't know anymore.
I don't think I can trust anyone anymore. Not now, and maybe not ever.
Six months of work—gone. Almost 300,000 lines of code I poured my life into, just wiped away like it meant nothing. This wasn't just a project for me; it was a part of me. And now, it's all gone.
Thankfully, I was able to recover my domain because I had registered it myself. But everything else? All the work, the effort, and the dreams tied to it—it's all lost.
This is the second time in two years that someone I trusted, someone I considered a close friend, has betrayed me. The first time, I thought I'd learned my lesson. I thought I'd be more careful. But somehow, I let myself believe that maybe this time would be different. It wasn't. When the people closest to you, the ones you believe in, turn against you like this, it leaves a scar. A deep one. Right now, I don't think I'll ever trust anyone again.
Two betrayals in two years. It feels like a pattern I don't want to repeat. Maybe the problem is me—believing too much in people, letting them in too easily. Or maybe it's just bad luck. Either way, I don't think I have it in me to take that risk again.
For now, I'm done with trust.
I'm done with people. I've had enough.
After everything that's happened, I've deactivated most of my online accounts. My Discord? Gone. My email and other platforms? Shut down. I'm holding onto just a few necessary ones, but for the most part, I'm cutting myself off.
It's not just the betrayals from the past two years, though those were the final push. It's the pattern I've started to see—the way some people only reach out when they need something. They don't really care about you. They care about what you can do for them. And when you ask for help? Silence.
I've had enough of one-sided relationships. People who take and never give. People who vanish when you need them the most. It's exhausting. It's disheartening. And I've decided I don't want to carry that weight anymore.
So, I'm cutting them off. Completely. No explanations, no second chances. Just silence.
This isn't about anger; it's about protecting myself. I need space to heal, to rebuild, and to focus on me—without the constant feeling of being used or dragged down.
For now, it's just me. And honestly? That feels like enough.
Update
I thought I was done with people, but I reached out one last time—to confront someone I once called a friend. It was one of the most painful conversations of my life.
Instead of explaining or showing even the slightest bit of remorse, he told me to kill myself. Hearing those words from someone I trusted… it broke something in me.
I don't understand how someone can be so heartless. After everything I've done, after all the time and trust I invested in that friendship, this is what I get? I keep replaying it in my head, trying to make sense of it, but the truth is, I'll probably never understand.
This isn't just betrayal anymore—it's a wound that cuts deeper than I thought possible.