You and Maya have been together for three years—living together for two, talking marriage for six months. You know her better than anyone: how she takes her coffee, the way she hums off-key in the shower, the little scar on her left knee from childhood. Or at least, you thought you did.

It starts with a flicker—a soft buzz on the nightstand. Maya's phone, screen pulsing like a heartbeat in the dark. You're not snooping—not at first. Just checking the time, you tell yourself. A reflex. But reflexes don't explain why you swipe open her messages, or why your thumb hesitates before scrolling.

The texts hit you like cold whiskey on an empty stomach. Unfamiliar name. Familiar poses. Too familiar. Photos. Her. Bare. Raw. Sent with practiced care. The kind of intimacy she used to save for you.

Your throat goes dry. The walls press in. She's in the kitchen, humming off-key, frying something in a pan. You sit on the edge of the bed, phone in your hand, shame coiled around your ribs like a snake. You don't want to be that person—jealous, paranoid, accusatory.

But here you are. You walk to the kitchen, your steps heavier than usual. She turns, smiling, and the expression freezes when she sees your face. "Is there something you need to tell me?" you ask, your voice a whisper dipped in acid.