Chapter 3: Marlboros and Midnight Sleuthing

Two months ago, she went to a class reunion and posted a group photo on her Facebook. That guy was in it.

I remembered because her best friend commented, asking if the guy next to her was the old class heartthrob, and said he was still so handsome.

My girlfriend replied with a giggling emoji.

Her best friend replied again, "But you’ve gotten even prettier. I bet he regrets it now, huh?"

I asked her about it back then. She said the guy chased her in school but she turned him down. Then she added, "He’s about to get married now, so don’t overthink it."

In those dozen or so photos, the way those two acted around each other was clearly off.

I just sat there, burning through half a pack of Marlboros, feeling all sorts of things.

That night, I called her again—no answer.

Close to ten, she FaceTimed me. But she was in the hotel lobby, not her room.

She said she went to see a show at Riverwalk Plaza, didn’t hear her phone, and now she was exhausted and about to sleep. She said a few rushed words and hung up, saying she was getting in the elevator.

I couldn’t sleep. I scrolled through her Facebook and Instagram, searching for clues.

And I actually found something: she had liked a suspicious Instagram post—a close-up of a wine glass.

The time? The day of her class reunion, April 20th.

That Instagram account had a few daily posts, nothing special. But there was a woman always replying in the comments. I dug deeper, and after a quick look, I was sure it was my girlfriend’s finsta.

Because on April 20th, that account posted a photo identical to what she posted on her Facebook that day.

"Do you still remember the dreams of your youth? Like a flower that never withers."

What made my blood pound was that last night, this account posted:

"Turn off the main light and I can be bolder. Leave a small light on and you can see me more clearly. You belong only to me, and I belong only to you."

There’s no way to describe how I felt reading that…

My thumb hovered over the screen, scrolling through her words, each sentence slicing deeper than the last. I could practically hear her whisper them, soft and intimate, the way she used to talk to me after midnight, tucked under our worn comforter with the TV on low. Now, those words felt like a punch to the ribs.