Welcome back to Stories from Tina, folks. So grab your coffee, your tea, or—let’s be real—your wine, because today we need to talk about something that has been living rent-free in my head alongside the lyrics to a song I hate and the reminder to buy dish soap. Life isn’t a tidy spreadsheet or a glossy highlight reel; it’s a messy collage of coffee stains, late-night texts, and that moment when you realize you’ve been wearing two different socks all day while simultaneously having an epiphany about human nature.
This brings me to a quote I saw recently that made me stop mid-scroll and literally shout, “YES!” at my phone screen: “Some ppl still think you don’t know they’ve betrayed you, just because you haven’t said anything.” Whew. Can we just sit with that for a second while I also try to figure out why my toaster decided to burn the edges of my bread while leaving the center suspiciously marshmallow-y?
Here is the thing about me: as a Leo, I am naturally expressive because we are fire signs who roar. If I’m happy, you know it, and if I’m mad, you definitely know it. We aren’t exactly known for our subtlety. Usually, when people do me dirty—whether it’s a shady “friend,” an ex who thinks they’re slick, or a coworker trying to throw me under the bus—they expect the explosion. They are practically rehearsing their defensive speeches in the shower waiting for Tina to come knocking down the door demanding answers.
But lately, amidst the morning chronicle of hitting snooze exactly three times and having my cat audit my every move with a judgmental stare that suggests I could do better, I’ve been trying out a new terrifying tactic called Absolute Silence. And let me tell you, it is confusing the heck out of them.
There is a specific kind of humor in watching someone lie to your face when you already have the screenshots. It feels a lot like watching a bad actor in a low-budget movie giving it their all with crocodile tears while I’m just sitting there nodding like, “Mmm-hmm, wow, crazy how that happened.” Meanwhile, in my head, I’m organizing the evidence into mental folders and also wondering if I remembered to turn off the hair straightener.
Why do people assume that silence equals ignorance, as if my Wi-Fi is down or I suddenly lost my ability to perceive reality? No, boo. I see the betrayal, I see the side-eye, and I heard what you said to so-and-so at that party. But here is the secret I’ve learned between sending emails that are accidental novellas and trying to cook something edible without the one ingredient I swear I bought: Confrontation is expensive. It costs me energy, it costs me my peace, and frankly, some people just cannot afford my rates anymore because I’m too busy trying to survive the workday rhythm where I reorganize fonts for ten minutes pretending it’s productivity.
My silence isn’t weakness; it’s a strategy and a trap. When you don’t call someone out immediately, they get sloppy. They think they got away with it, so they start leaving shovel-sized clues all over the place. I had this situation recently where someone thought they were playing me, but if I had screamed on Day 1, they would have gaslit me. Instead, I just waited and let them spin the web until they were tangled, proving that the truth always floats to the top like oil in water—or like the burnt bits of toast I’m scraping into the sink.
There is a massive power shift that happens when you know they betrayed you but you treat them with basic, unbothered cordiality. It drives them insane waiting for the reaction that never comes. It is essentially me saying, “Your betrayal was cute, but it wasn’t significant enough to ruin my Tuesday or interrupt my hunt for the missing sock.” That is the ultimate Leo flex: choosing my dignity over their drama and realizing that my peace is more important than being “right.”
Humor is my survival tool in all of this, a flashlight in the dark attic that makes the scary bits less scary. So, to the betrayers reading this who think they pulled a fast one because I haven’t keyed your car: don’t get comfortable. I know, I saw it, I processed it, and I decided you weren’t worth the breath it would take to discuss it.
And to everyone else: the next time someone stabs you in the back, try holding your tongue. Not because you’re scared, but because you’re smart. Then grab some popcorn (or that wine we talked about), sit back, and watch the show because the only thing better than revenge is watching karma do the dirty work while you stay looking cute and imperfectly human.
Stay savvy, stay sweet, and keep ‘em guessing.
XoXo,
Tina