Then: “Yeah… they look great on you.”
He disappeared into the bathroom for twenty minutes. No explanation. No apology.
I sat in silence, staring at my reflection in the hallway mirror, wondering if I had finally snapped — or if I had finally woken up.
Seven Years of Settling
We had been together for seven years. Married for four. Somewhere along the way, affection had dulled, smiles grew polite, and he started coming home later and later, smelling of cologne I didn’t recognize.
And I — foolishly, loyally — blamed everything but him.
Work stress. Routine. Maybe even myself.
But lace on my pillow wasn’t an accident.
It was a dare.
Quiet Investigations
From that moment on, I said nothing.
I watched.
Passwords changed. Phones never left his pocket. He suddenly cared a lot about fitness — and even more about long evenings “helping friends.”
So I started collecting the truth.
Small details, like crumbs.
Dates. Receipts. Habits.
I didn’t confront him. Not yet. I wasn’t ready for excuses. I wanted evidence that couldn’t be denied.
Then one evening, he said he was going to Milo’s to “help mount a TV.”
But Milo — poor Milo — had just posted sun-drenched photos from Santorini.
So I followed. Quietly. Three cars behind.
He pulled into a generic apartment complex, buzzed in, and dis
appeared behind a second-story light.
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