My stomach dropped instantly.
At first, I told myself it had to be fake. Maybe someone stole his photos. Maybe it was an old abandoned account. But as I kept reading, I realized it was undeniably him.
The jokes in the bio were his.
The little stories were ours.
Even the way he wrote sounded exactly like the man lying next to me.
My chest tightened.
In that moment, every insecurity I had spent two years trying to suppress came crashing down on me all at once.
Was he looking for someone else because I had changed?
Was he tired of taking care of me?
Had my illness slowly destroyed our marriage without me realizing it?
The thoughts spiraled so fast I could barely breathe.
But instead of confronting him, I did something I’m not proud of.
I created an anonymous account and messaged him.
My hands shook while typing the first sentence.
I expected flirting.
I expected lies.
I expected confirmation that my worst fears were finally coming true.
Instead, his reply came almost immediately.
And it was… kind.
Not flirtatious.
Not inappropriate.
Just warm, respectful, and strangely distant.
Confused, I kept talking to him, waiting for the conversation to cross a line.
But it never did.
Then, during the conversation, he suddenly sent me a photo.
My heart pounded while it loaded.
When the image finally appeared on my screen, tears instantly filled my eyes.
It was me.
