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 disappeared behind a second-story light.
I didn’t knock.
see more on the next pageI didn’t need to.
The Breaking Point
The next morning, he kissed me goodbye like everything was fine. I cried after he left — not because he cheated, but because some part of me had hoped I was wrong.
That afternoon, I called Mira, an old college friend turned lawyer.
“What do you want to do?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. Not yet.
But I knew.
Later that week, I made a dinner reservation. Our first anniversary spot. I told him I wanted to “reconnect.” He lit up like a man who believed he’d been forgiven.
I wore red. Curled my hair. Let him think he was winning.
Over appetizers, I slid a photo across the table.
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