Days passed, and the unease settled into a constant companion. I noticed the calendar entries with increasing frequency, each one a silent accusation. One evening, while he was in the shower, I opened his phone—an action that felt both necessary and invasive. I knew his passcode, a sequence of numbers that felt like a betrayal as I typed them in.
The phone unlocked without a hitch, and I navigated to the messages. Nothing unusual at first glance, until I found a text exchange with a contact saved as « L. » The conversation was short, mostly confirmations of meeting times. No names, no personal notes, just logistical details.
« 4 PM Thursday? » « Yes, same place. »
I stared at the screen, willing it to reveal more than it could. I put the phone back exactly as I found it, stepping away as if from a crime scene, my heart heavy with the knowledge of what I had done.
That night, I lay awake beside him, our bodies separated by a gulf of silence. I could hear his steady breathing, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside me. I considered bringing it up, but the words wouldn’t come. I needed more, something concrete before I could confront the shadow that had crept into our lives.
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