In the early months of my ex and I’s relationship, around six months in, we weren’t officially exclusive—though in practice, we were together. The blurred lines left room for complications, for questions that were never asked but still haunted the edges of every conversation. I didn’t worry much about it, until one night.

I had plans of my own that evening, and she was going to a party. But halfway through my night, I couldn’t shake the thought of her. I decided to surprise her. It was a sweet idea—show up, see her face light up. But when I arrived at the party, she wasn’t there. I asked around and got a lot of awkward, half-answered responses. She’d gone home, apparently. Her house was only about a fifteen-minute walk away.

I headed over to her parents’ place, and sure enough, her car was in the driveway. Her bedroom light was on. I knocked and rang the doorbell, but no one answered. I thought maybe she’d decided to walk home after all, so I retraced her likely route, searching the streets. Nothing. By the time I got back to the house, her light was off.

I knocked again, harder this time, until her brother finally opened the door. He didn’t know if she was home. I made my way upstairs and found her in her room, naked under the covers, completely passed out, massive wet spot under her, and a red swollen pussy. I tried waking her, but she didn’t stir. That’s when I saw her phone—my messages were marked as read, but she hadn’t replied. And then, just above mine, there was another set of texts from a no-contact number: “Fun time, let’s do it again soon.”

I felt cold all over.

I tried to wake her again, but she was out, deep in some alcohol-fueled slumber. Checking her phone again, I saw enough to know what had happened. Swelling anger, betrayal, and curiosity mixed inside me. I sent a message to the guy, pretending to be her: “Want to meet again tonight?” And he did. He said he’d be back in an hour.

I couldn’t believe it was happening like this. I was in shock but also numb, like I was watching it all from the outside. I stayed. When he showed up, I played it cool, pretending she had just gone to bed early, and he left, none the wiser. I wasn’t there to fight; I just wanted to see who he was. What he looked like.

The next day, when she finally woke up, I asked her what had happened. She swore she’d just had too much to drink and passed out. I told her about the messages, about him showing up, and her face turned white. She ran to the bathroom with her phone, deleted everything.

We never spoke of it again.

I let it go. Maybe it was because, a few weeks earlier, she’d seen the condom wrappers I’d forgotten to throw away beside my bed. She hadn’t said a word. She just gave me this look, as if she understood, and I changed the sheets like nothing had happened.

But that night, that discovery, did something to us. We never fully recovered. I didn’t, at least. It planted a seed—of distrust, of some dark excitement I couldn’t explain. Over time, I came to realize that the thrill of knowing, but not knowing, had worked its way into the way I loved, the way I desired. That night, in its own twisted way, had shaped something fundamental in me.

And even now, after all these years, I wonder if it did the same to her. We did many years later explore swinging with some soft swapping and same room play before eventually breaking up.