It started with a feeling a quiet unease I couldn’t shake. He’d been distant lately, his phone always turned away, his excuses piling up like a stack of unanswered questions. I wanted to trust him; I told myself I was overthinking. But then I saw his location. The little dot led me to a café across town. Through the window, I saw him leaning in close to a woman I didn’t recognize, smiling in a way that made my stomach twist. I tried to rationalize it, tried to believe it was innocent, but deep down, I knew. Over the next few days, I watched his location more closely. The pattern became undeniable different places, different women, but the same lies when he came home to me. I didn’t want it to be true, but the evidence was right there, staring back at me. When I finally confronted him, he tried to deny it, to charm his way out of it like he always did. But I laid it all out the locations, the times, the things I’d seen. And when I asked him how many, the silence was answer enough. He said he never meant to hurt me, but his words felt hollow. I told him the truth: it wasn’t about what he meant it was about what he did. That night, I packed my things and left. It hurt, but staying would have hurt even more. Walking away, I realized I wasn’t just leaving him I was leaving behind the lies, the betrayal, and the weight of loving someone who couldn’t love me the way I deserved. And as painful as it was, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: free.