For months I’d been collecting small things. The phone that went face-down on the counter. The gym schedule that didn’t quite add up. The way a conversation would stop when I walked into a room. None of it was proof of anything. I told myself that every time. But the list kept getting longer, and eventually I stopped being able to sleep through the night.

I didn’t want to be that person. The one who checks up on their partner, who goes looking for something they might not be able to unsee. That felt like a line I wasn’t supposed to cross. But I also realized at some point that the not-knowing had already crossed a line of its own, and that I was doing more damage to myself by sitting inside the uncertainty than I would by finding out the truth, whatever it was.

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