As if it were evidence.
Before Ian, I dated a guy who kept a second phone in his glove box. Before that, a guy whose « cousin » turned out to be his fiancée. My early 20s had been, to put it politely, a masterclass in red flags.
Then Ian walked into my life four years ago and just refused to be a mess.
From the very beginning, our relationship was a breath of fresh air.
A masterclass in red flags.
« I don’t do secrets, » he told me on our third date, sliding his phone across the table with the passcode already typed in. « It’s exhausting. Let’s just not. »
« You’re joking? »
« I’m really not. »
And he wasn’t. For four years, we shared passwords, calendars, bank alerts, and group chats. If a woman from his office texted him past nine, he showed me before I could ask. If I had a weird dream about my ex, I told him at breakfast.
« I don’t do secrets. »
