MY HANDS WERE SHAKING LOOKING AT THE CONTACT NAME REPEATED ON HIS LOCKED SCREEN
I saw her name flashing over and over on his phone sitting face up on the bedside table. The soft blue light pulsed against the dark room, mocking me with every single notification that popped up from *her*.
I didn’t even touch it at first. Just stood there, the floorboards cold under my bare feet, watching the relentless march of their messages. Each one was a tiny pinprick, then a stab, then a gaping wound in my chest. I finally grabbed it, thumbing his easy-to-guess password.
My breath caught in my throat. Pictures I didn’t recognize, plans I wasn’t part of. Then I saw the last text he’d sent.
“You really think lying makes it better?” she’d written. His reply was just three awful words.
I dropped the phone like it was burning my skin, the cheap plastic case clattering on the hardwood. The silence after felt heavier than the betrayal itself.
He stirred in the bed behind me, pulling the sheet tighter around himself.He mumbled something unintelligible, still half-asleep, completely oblivious to the quiet earthquake that had just shattered my world. I backed away slowly, each step measured, each movement deliberate. I couldn’t face him, not yet. Not with the raw, gaping wound he’d unknowingly inflicted.
I slipped out of the bedroom, padding down the hallway to the living room. The city lights filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the carpet. I sank onto the couch, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to contain the tsunami of emotions threatening to drown me.
Anger warred with disbelief. Hurt mingled with a chilling sense of inevitability. Had I been blind? Naive? Or simply unwilling to see the cracks that had been widening between us for months?
The truth was a bitter pill to swallow. He had been lying, and she knew it. The question was, for how long? And about what?
A sudden, sharp pain pierced through the numbness. What did “I love you” mean when uttered between his lips? Was it a lie too?
He emerged from the bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Hey,” he said, his voice still thick with slumber. He stopped short when he saw me huddled on the couch, the tension radiating from my body like heat from a furnace.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, the innocent question a cruel jab in the ribs.
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even look at him. I just pointed toward the bedroom, toward the phone lying innocently on the floor.
He followed my gaze, his face paling as understanding dawned. He walked back into the bedroom, and I heard a muttered curse under his breath. When he returned, he didn’t try to deny it.
“It’s not what you think,” he said, his voice pleading.
But it was exactly what I thought.
“Who is she?” I managed to whisper, the words barely audible.
He hesitated, his eyes darting around the room, searching for an escape. But there was nowhere to run.
“Her name is Sarah,” he finally confessed, the words hanging heavy in the air. “She’s… someone from work.”
The details that followed were a blur of explanations and excuses. He claimed it was a mistake, a momentary lapse in judgment, that he loved me and only me. But the words sounded hollow, rehearsed.
The trust was broken, irrevocably shattered. And while a part of me wanted to believe him, to forgive him, to pretend that none of this had happened, I knew I couldn’t.
“I can’t do this,” I said, my voice firm despite the tears streaming down my face. “I deserve better.”
He didn’t argue. He just stood there, defeated, as I walked to the bedroom, packed a bag, and left.
As I stepped out into the cool night air, I didn’t know what the future held. But I knew one thing for sure: I was free. Free from the lies, the secrets, and the man who had broken my heart. It was a painful freedom, but it was mine. And in that moment, I knew I would be okay.