The reception blurred into clinking glasses and warm laughter. Our first dance began beneath fairy lights, the room dim and golden. The song was “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” and for a moment, I believed every word.
He pulled me close, brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, and whispered, “You look beautiful as always, Amy.”
My smile faltered.
My name isn’t Amy.
At first, I thought I misheard. The music was loud, the room alive. But when he froze—when the color drained from his face—I knew I hadn’t imagined it. He knew it too. And in that single, trembling pause, something inside me cracked.
I don’t remember the rest of the dance. I laughed too loudly at jokes I didn’t hear, smiled for photos I’ll never frame. But beneath it all, something had shifted. A quiet voice inside me whispered: Who is Amy?
I didn’t ask that night. I couldn’t. I told myself it was nerves, exhaustion—anything but what it felt like. I wanted to believe it was nothing. But truth doesn’t stay buried.
In the weeks that followed, the cracks widened.
David grew distant. He stayed up late, scrolling through his phone with the screen turned away. His laughter—once effortless—became measured, careful.
I asked him once, gently, who Amy was. He said she was “no one,” a colleague from years ago. He laughed, brushed my cheek, and said, “You’re overthinking, love.”
It was in the silences that I saw it—the way his eyes lingered when her name lit up his phone during dinner, the hesitation when I asked simple questions.
Two weeks later, when he said he was working late, I drove to his office to surprise him. The lot was empty. The building dark. I sat in my car, staring at the vacant space where the truth lived.
The next morning, I found the messages. Fragments of a conversation not meant for me.
“I still think about you.”
“I wish things were different.”
“You know I never stopped.”
It was Amy.
I didn’t confront him right away. I wanted to see if he’d choose honesty or hide behind silence. But each day he came home pretending, and each day I loved him a little less.
When I finally showed him the messages, he didn’t deny it. He stared at the floor and said, “I didn’t mean for it to happen. She reached out. It was… complicated.”
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