I thought we had a perfect life, truly.
Our apartment felt like a sanctuary, a place built on years of trust and shared dreams.
We'd spent the entire weekend laughing, making plans for our upcoming anniversary trip.
Everything felt incredibly normal, blissfully ignorant.
He’d gone out to pick up dinner, leaving his phone charging on the bedside table.
I wasn’t snooping, not at all; I just wanted to play some music while I tidied up.
His phone was closer than mine, so I grabbed it.
That’s when I saw it: a notification from an unfamiliar photo app, one I’d never seen on his home screen.
My heart gave a tiny, almost imperceptible lurch.
Curiosity, a slow, cold tendril, wound its way around me.
I clicked it, my finger hesitating for just a second.
The app opened to a gallery, locked with a password.
A knot tightened in my stomach.
Why would he have a hidden photo app?
He’d never kept secrets from me, not about anything that mattered.
A flash of intuition, sharp and unwelcome, pierced through my calm.
I tried our anniversary date, his mother’s birthday, even the name of our first pet.
Nothing worked.
Panic started to bubble, a sour taste in my mouth.
Then, out of sheer desperation, I tried her birthday.
I had no reason to know her birthday, yet the thought just came.
And it worked.
The gallery opened, and the first picture hit me like a physical blow.
It was her.
Smiling.
In our bed.
My breath hitched, catching somewhere deep in my chest.
The sheets were the ones we bought together, the exact pattern, the familiar rumple.
My hands started to shake, uncontrollably.
I scrolled, my fingers numb, each swipe a fresh stab of agony.
There were dozens.
Pictures of them, together.
Intimate.
Joyful.
In our living room, on our couch, by our kitchen window.
They weren't old, faded memories from before us.
The timestamps screamed in my face, a digital indictment.
Last week.
