The tablet was the family one. That detail matters, because Daniel always acted like it belonged to no one, like it lived on the coffee table the way a lamp does, neutral and shared and beneath suspicion.

I only picked it up because the living room remote had eaten its batteries and I wanted to stream something while he showered. The screen woke without a passcode. And there, already open in a half-minimized window, was an app I had never seen him touch in four years together.

A dating profile. His face. A photo I recognized from our trip to the coast, except he'd cropped me out of the left edge, so cleanly that I could still see the ghost of my shoulder.

My stomach dropped through the floor. I sat down on the arm of the couch because my legs simply decided not to hold me anymore. Then I did the thing you do when you've already decided your life is over and you just want to know how it ended. I scrolled.

I expected another woman. A name that recurred. Plans, a hotel, a code word, the architecture of a real affair. I was braced for it the way you brace for a slap.

What I found instead took me almost an hour to understand.

Hundreds of conversations. Hundreds. And every single one of them was a graveyard. Daniel, opening with the same tired line he must have copied and pasted: *hey gorgeous, you've got incredible energy.* And then nothing. Or worse than nothing. Women telling him he was a creep. Women telling him to lose their number. One simply sent a single laughing emoji and never replied again. Match after match after match, unmatched. Read, ignored. Blocked.

He had been trying to cheat on me for what the timestamps said was nearly two years. And he had failed. Universally, completely, humiliatingly. Not one woman had said yes. Not one had even agreed to coffee. The whole archive was a museum of his rejection, curated by strangers who all, independently, looked at him and walked away.

I heard the shower shut off. The pipes knocked in the wall.

And I realized the betrayal wasn't smaller because he'd struck out. It was, somehow, larger. He hadn't slipped once into temptation. He had logged in night after night, beside me on this very couch sometimes, choosing me as his fallback. The consolation prize. The woman he came home to only because no one better would have him.

When he came out toweling his hair, I held the tablet up so he could see his own face on the screen.

He didn't ask how I found it. He didn't deny it. He just looked at all those grey unanswered messages and said, quietly, "It never went anywhere. So technically nothing happened."

Technically. As though intent were nothing. As though I should be grateful the world had rejected him on my behalf.

I packed a bag that night. Not because he'd succeeded. Because for two years, every time he reached for that tablet, he'd already left.