I pretended to be asleep, listening as he tiptoed into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed for a while before heading to the shower.
I picked up the jacket he'd tossed over the chair.
On the collar, a single long strand of hair.
My hair was short.
I kept that strand for a month. Tucked it between the pages of my journal. Never asked. Never threw it away.
The first real confrontation came in December.
He was in the shower that night when his phone buzzed again. Almost without thinking, I picked it up. The passcode hadn't changed. Still our anniversary.
I opened his messages. Pinned at the top was a contact named "Juliana."
The last message was from her: Thanks for keeping me company today! Next time dinner's on me~
I scrolled up. The history was all there. He'd bought her bubble tea, taken her to the hospital, driven her home late at night.
She'd written: I'm scared of being alone.
He'd written: I'm here.
No explicit words. No inappropriate photos.
But every single message carved into my chest like a blade.
He came out of the shower and saw me holding his phone. The color drained from his face.
"Lydia, let me explain—"