It was the synced data that gave him away, and I have never decided whether to thank the little black band on his wrist or curse it.

Marcus and I bought matching trackers the winter we decided to get serious about our health. It started as a joke, really. We were two people who ordered dessert too often and called walking to the car cardio. So we linked our accounts, and every morning we would compare numbers over coffee like rival coaches. Ten thousand steps. Resting heart rate. Sleep stages charted in those soft, candy-colored bars. It felt intimate, watching the shape of someone's day in graphs. I thought it was a kind of closeness.

That Tuesday he had texted me early. Wiped out, babe. Long day. Crashing now, talk tomorrow. I remember smiling at my phone, picturing him face-down in his gray sheets, already snoring. I told him goodnight and went to bed myself.

I only opened the app the next morning out of habit, thumbing through my own sleep score before work. Then I tapped over to his profile the way I always did, ready to tease him about going to bed at nine like somebody's grandfather. And there it was.

A spike.

At 4:02 AM his heart rate had climbed from a sleeping fifty-one to a hundred and forty-seven and held there. Not a flutter. Not the quick jolt of a nightmare that settles in seconds. A long, sustained plateau of effort, the kind the app cheerfully labeled active minutes, stretching across nearly twenty minutes of the night. The little graph drew a flat red mesa where there should have been the gentle valley of a man asleep.

I stared at it for a long time. I told myself there was an explanation. A panic attack. A fever. He got up for water and tripped over the dog. I built each excuse carefully and watched each one collapse under the weight of that flat, rhythmic line. Bodies do not lie the way mouths do. The band on his wrist had no reason to protect anyone.

When I asked him about it, casually, over the phone, I heard the pause. That small dead air where a person reaches for a story and finds the shelf empty. He said he must have left it on the charger and it glitched. I sent him the screenshot. He said the app made mistakes all the time. I asked why the mistake had a heart rate, a duration, and a timestamp of four in the morning while he was supposedly unconscious and exhausted.

He stopped answering after that.

I learned her name later, the way you always do, in fragments that arrive too late to soften anything. But the truth I keep is smaller and stranger than her. It is the memory of us laughing over coffee, comparing our numbers, believing the data was something we shared. All along it was just keeping an honest record of a night he swore never happened. I took my tracker off that afternoon and I have not worn it since.