That night, while he slept, I quietly unbuttoned his shirt.
Phone flashlight on. His waist, his neck—covered in kiss marks. Some fresh, some fading.
I felt like I'd fallen into an ice cave.
It was the middle of summer, yet I couldn't stop shaking.
I shook him awake, furious, demanding to know who left those marks.
Before he could even make an excuse, his phone lit up. An intimate message popped up: "Bro, last night was so much fun~"
I smashed his phone to pieces.
I cried, screaming at him—why? Why was he doing this to me? Why cheat?
I was hysterical, a madwoman smashing everything in sight. Pathetic as a clown.
He knelt at my feet, sobbing, swearing it would never happen again.
Over and over, he kowtowed, saying he was wrong.
I thought he would change.
After that, I became paranoid.
If he came home even a little late, I couldn't help but interrogate him.
And he grew more impatient. He came home less and less, always carrying the scent of unfamiliar perfume.
I didn't know how many lovers he had. Those women never showed their faces.
Until I saw it with my own eyes—him making out with a blonde in a bar.
I told him I wanted to break up.