Five Stars

I paid fourteen pounds eighty for the ride that broke my heart.

Her name was Josie. We'd been dating nine months, sharing everything, including my Uber account, because "it's easier for safety." She always texted when she got home. Always.

Then one Saturday, no text. I woke up to an email.

"Your trip with Karim. 2:14 AM."

Karim. Not her. Not me. A stranger in a Corolla.

I opened the receipt. Pickup: the bar near her uni. Drop-off: an address on the other side of town. Not her flat. Not mine.

I stared at that little map for ten minutes. Blue line, tiny car, a tragic little pin. Then I scrolled and saw the driver's note. She'd left a five-star rating. Tip: £2. Comment: "Thanks for the playlist!"

She was in a car, with music, happy, going to someone else's door, on my card.

I called her. She picked up, sounding sleepy and calm. I just said, "Where were you last night?" And the silence was the answer.

She didn't even deny it. She said, "I didn't want you to find out like this."

Like this. Via receipt.

I'd like to say I screamed. I just said, "Okay," and hung up.

Then I did the stupidest thing. I opened the app and rated Karim too. Five stars.

He drove her to my heartbreak.

The least I could do was tip.