How I Found Out I Was a Suspect in a Crime I Didn’t Know Existed
A tale of delusion, dead fiancés, and the internet’s insatiable need for drama.
©️ By Sophie, alleged murderer of imaginary men
It was a quiet day. Birds chirped, kettle boiled, existential dread simmered in the background — you know, the usual. Until suddenly, my phone pinged with the kind of message you only expect to see in badly written crime thrillers or the group chats of very bored people.
Apparently… I killed my fiancé.
Which was a surprise to me — mostly because I’ve never had one.
Yes, somewhere out there, a tinfoil-hat-wearing genius decided to accuse me, a woman with zero history of engagement, of murdering a man I never met. And not just any man, oh no. A real man from a real WalesOnline article. They even came armed with a link, like they’d cracked the Da Vinci Code. I laughed. Then I choked on my tea. Then I laughed again.
Because when you can’t find dirt on someone, why not just write your own gritty crime saga and cast them as the villain?
She’s Guilty… of Not Giving a Single Shit.
They didn’t just throw the accusation lightly either — oh no, they committed to the bit.
They genuinely believed they’d uncovered some dark secret from my past. Like I’d been living in hiding ever since the fictional funeral, wearing sunglasses indoors and flinching every time someone said the word “fiancé.”
Now. I’ve been with my actual, very much alive boyfriend for 13 years.
Thirteen years of shared snacks, survival-level patience, and arguments over what to watch next on Netflix — but apparently, I snuck in a secret engagement and a murder at some point, too. Multi-tasking queen, allegedly.
So imagine my confusion when I get sent a WalesOnline article about a tragic case involving a woman and her deceased fiancé… and someone deadass claims it’s me. Like I’ve been running some shadow life. Side fiancé. Side body count. Side obituary?
You couldn’t write it. Except they did.
They came armed with a link like it was some smoking gun. “THIS YOU?” Like they’d cracked open a cold case with nothing but a sixth sense and a grudge. Honestly, the only thing they cracked open was my lungs — from laughing.
Detective Crackpot and the Case of the Non-Murder
Now listen, I’ve been accused of many things in my time — being “too opinionated,” “too weird,” “too passionate about kettle chips” — but murder?
That’s a new low/high/what-the-actual-fuck. And to be clear: I don’t even kill houseplants, let alone imaginary men.
But this wasn’t just gossip. No, no. This was a full-blown case file in the Land of Make-Believe. Some keyboard crusader, probably armed with a vape and a fake profile, decided they’d dig up “dirt” on me. When they found none — because I’m squeaky clean and moisturised with facts — they did what any self-respecting crackpot would do:
Invent a crime.
Assign me the lead role.
Post the evidence (a WalesOnline article I’ve never even seen before).
And sit back like Poirot on a budget.
I imagine them proudly sharing the link with their group chat like:
“Got her. She’s toast. She’s going down. Call the Daily Mail.”
Meanwhile, I’m over here, sat in my fluffy socks, probably mid-biscuit dunk, wondering why someone thinks I’m the star of a crime story I wasn’t even cast in.
The Slander Olympics (Gold Medal in Delusion)
Honestly, if there were medals for creative slander, this person would be standing smugly on the podium, biting gold with their crusty molars. They didn’t just reach — they pole-vaulted over logic, facts, and reality itself.
It’s giving:
“We couldn’t find a scandal so we made one — poorly.”
“No fiancé? No problem — we’ll give her one and then kill him off.”
“WalesOnline said someone died? Must be Sophie.”
Like babes… do you think I’ve got time to juggle exposés, survivor campaigns, and clandestine manslaughter? You really think my calendar says:
- 10am: Write powerful journalism
- 1pm: Fight the system
- 4pm: Murder imaginary fiancé
- 6pm: Tea and biscuits with the pigeons?
Let me say this for the people at the back of the WhatsApp group:
I. Didn’t. Kill. Anyone.
Not emotionally. Not spiritually. Not literally.
The only thing I’ve ever killed is a bag of Doritos and the vibes of a few creeps online.
To Whom It May Concern: I Didn’t Kill Anyone, I’m Just Built Funny
So here’s my official statement, written from the depths of disbelief and unbothered sass:
No, I didn’t murder a man I never met.
No, I’m not the grieving woman in that article.
Yes, I do find this whole situation funnier than it has any right to be.
And yes, this article is my full-blown snarky revenge.
You tried to dig up dirt. All you found was my sense of humour and the fact that I don’t play.
So next time you want to start a smear campaign, maybe check your sources… and your meds.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got real work to do — and shockingly, none of it involves hiding bodies.
Signed,
Sophie — Alive, Untamed, and Completely Innocent (Except of Stealing the Show)
