It started out like any other day. We were sitting in the living room, just talking — or at least, I was. She was scrolling through her phone, half-listening, nodding occasionally. But something felt… off. Like her words didn’t match her expressions anymore. I couldn’t shake it. So, I did something I never thought I’d do.
I turned on the voice recorder on my phone and set it down on the coffee table, face-down. She didn’t notice.
Later that night, I listened.
What I heard wasn’t explosive or dramatic. It was subtle. Little lies. Small contradictions. The way she talked about our plans to her friend on a call when I stepped out — completely different from what she told me earlier that day. Her tone. Her laugh. The version of me she described to her friend didn’t sound like me at all.
“She thinks I’m working late because I need the money,” she said on the phone. “But really, it’s just nice to have a break.”
A break from what?
I kept listening. The more I heard, the heavier it got. It wasn’t cheating. It wasn’t cruel. But it was a wall — a wall of things she didn’t say to me, of truths she chose to share only when she thought no one was listening.
And the worst part? It wasn’t what she said. It was how easy it was for her to say it.
I didn’t confront her that night. I just sat with it. Staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d rather have stayed in the dark. But now I knew. And once you know, you can’t unhear it. You can’t unfeel it.
She still doesn’t know I recorded her. Maybe one day I’ll tell her. Or maybe I’ll let the silence speak for itself.
