Right now I’m sitting in bed, staring at nothing while some music plays in the background, and I’m not even trying to think about anything in particular. I’m just letting stuff float in and out the way it does when it’s late and your mind won’t pick a lane.
And I remembered this one time I found out I was being cheated on.
The thing is… I already knew. Not “had proof” yet knew—just that quiet, sick knowing you try to talk yourself out of. But you always kind of know. So I started digging. And eventually I found something that stuck out in the phone records.
One number kept showing up. Over and over.
So I texted it.
I told her who I was, and she was mortified—like genuinely horrified. And weirdly, it wasn’t awkward between us. It snapped into place fast: we weren’t mad at each other. We were mad at him.
Same realization, same disgust.
And this is the part that still makes me laugh a little, because it’s so ridiculous.
She sets up a date with him at a park.
And he goes.
Of course he does.
And what a coincidence… I end up at that same park at the same time they’re there. I pulled up, got out, and walked right over to them. And when I got closer, me and her both lit into him. No polite conversation. No “let’s talk.” Just pure, earned yelling while he stood there like the idiot he is.
No charm. No magic words. No excuse that could save him.
Just that blank, caught look people get when they realize there’s nothing left to spin and nowhere left to hide.
Sometimes I wonder where she is now. I hope she’s having a great day today.