I once thought cheating involved a bed, a thousand-thread-count sheet, and a lie that you were spending the night at your friend’s. I thought betrayal seemed like lipstick on a collar, perfume on a shirt, or a stranger’s number tucked in a phone. I thought it was one you could see — until I found the type you feel.
His name is Aaron. We dated for four years. At first, he was everything I never thought I deserved — kind, gentle, thoughtful about the things he said. He’d look at me sometimes as if he could see parts of me I had buried deep and long, and love them anyway. I had baggage — don’t we all? But he appeared to bear it with me without complaint.
We lived together for two years. We had our apartment walls painted a neutral color, just as we mixed our lives like our furniture. Sunday mornings were sacred: coffee, crossword puzzles and long walks in the park. It wasn’t pretty, but it was ours. I trusted him. Completely.
And maybe that’s why it broke me when I found out.
It started small. He became more… distant. I brushed it off at first. Everyone has off days. But those days turned into weeks. He was looking at his phone with increasing regularity and contentedly smiling at messages he neglected to show me. If I asked, he’d say it was work — or a group chat I “wouldn’t care about.”
