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.

He started tracking his sleep to fix his snoring. One quiet Tuesday morning, I pressed play on the night's recording out of plain curiosity.

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.