Have You Ever

  There was always a gut feeling—a gnawing certainty that something was off. It wasn’t paranoia; it was survival instinct. My ex had a dirty little trick, a pathetic attempt to cover his tracks—saving girls’ numbers under dudes’ names. Cute, right? Then, one night, his deceit detonated. "Steve" wouldn’t stop blowing up his phone. Over and over, desperate, needy, annoying. My ex had stumbled in from the bar, reeking of alcohol, slurring something incoherent before crashing into unconsciousness like the useless coward he was. His phone lit up, vibrating incessantly—a beacon of betrayal. I reached for it. I already knew what I was going to find. The messages were disgusting, blatant, shameless. "Steve" was eager—couldn’t wait to get on top again, couldn’t wait to help him forget all about me. Except it wasn’t Steve. Obviously. I needed proof. Cold, undeniable, rub-it-in-his-face evidence. So I did the only thing that made sense: I picked up my own phone and cal...