I surfaced from sleep to a rhythm I didn't recognize in my own bedroom. When I opened my eyes, the woman I loved was already mid-betrayal.

Grading essays all day taught her to spot a machine pretending to be a person. She never expected to find that same fingerprint on a love letter meant for her husband.

My phone buzzed during dinner with a payment request from a number I didn't know. The note attached to it ended my marriage in eleven words.

He came home from the rescue smelling of someone else's home. The kibble in the trunk was the first thing that didn't fit.

He blamed late shifts for the empty side of the bed. The navigation app remembered every turn he swore he never took.

He said he was stuck at the office until dawn. Then my phone buzzed with a grocery order he never meant for me to see.