I SAW HER NAME ON HIS PHONE SCREEN UNDER THE BED
The bright screen under the bed caught my eye as I was reaching for a dropped earring. My knees hit the cold floor as I scrambled to grab it, my heart instantly pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. A message preview flashed: “Can’t wait for tomorrow night, Sarah.” It was a name I recognized with a chilling feeling in my gut.
He walked in just then, asking what I was doing down there, his tone too casual, too innocent. “Who is Sarah?” I asked, my voice shaking, holding the phone up, the plastic cool and slick in my hand. He went rigid, the color draining from his face. “It’s not what you think,” he stammered, but the cloying sweetness of her cheap perfume, faintly lingering on his shirt, hit me like a physical blow.
He started pacing, running a hand through his hair, muttering about mistakes, about it only happening once. “Mistakes?” I stood up, pushing hair from my eyes, the rough fibers of the rug scratching my bare knees. “You think lying about this makes it better? With *her*?” The air felt thick and hot, suffocating me. I knew then it wasn’t just a message or one time; it was everything I had been afraid of, collapsing around me.
He looked at me, his eyes desperate, just as his phone rang again in my hand.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*His phone vibrated insistently in my grasp, and the screen lit up again, the name “Sarah” glaring at me, accompanied by a photo – a smiling face I vaguely recognized from his social media, a distant friend, now suddenly too close. My breath hitched. He lunged forward, eyes wide with panic, reaching for the phone. “Give it back!” he choked out, his voice ragged.
I held it away from him, a strange calm settling over the tempest inside me. “No,” I said, my voice low and steady, utterly unlike the trembling mess I’d been moments ago. “I don’t think so.” I looked from the phone screen back to his desperate face. The mask was off. There was no innocent explanation, no colleague mix-up, just the raw, ugly truth laid bare. The cheap perfume suddenly felt like a physical weight pressing down on me.
“It was… I was going to tell you,” he stammered, wiping a hand across his face. Tears welled in his eyes, but they looked like self-pity, not remorse. “It’s over with her, I swear. This call… I don’t know why she’s calling.”
“It doesn’t matter why *she’s* calling,” I said, my gaze fixed on him. “It matters why *you* gave her a reason to. It matters that I found this… under the bed, like some dirty secret.” I finally looked down at the phone in my hand. The call was still ringing. I didn’t answer it. I didn’t need to. The message, the perfume, his reaction – it was all the answer I needed.
I held the phone out to him, not gently, but with a finality that made him flinch. “Here,” I said, dropping it into his outstretched hand. “You should probably take that. And pack your bags. Tonight.”
He stared at me, his mouth opening and closing silently, the phone ringing forgotten in his hand. “Wait, please,” he whispered, taking a step towards me.
I took a step back. The air wasn’t thick and hot anymore; it was cold, sharp, and clear. The fear was gone, replaced by a hollow ache and a surprising sense of purpose. “There’s nothing left to wait for,” I told him, turning my back and walking out of the bedroom, leaving him standing alone with the ringing phone and the wreckage of his own making.