Proof of Betrayal

It was raining.

The kind of rain that seeped into your bones, slow and cold. I stood under the transparent cover of the terminal entrance, my fingers clenched around the umbrella’s handle. The wind blew sideways, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Across the wet glass, I watched him—my husband—rush forward with a smile I hadn’t seen in months. He held out his arms, eyes sparkling like spring after drought. The man who stepped into them wore a cream trench coat and a scarf that matched his eyes—stormy blue, just like the ones in the photo album hidden at the back of our closet.

His first love had arrived from abroad.

The hug lasted too long. Their laughter echoed even through the thick glass.

I swallowed.

We were supposed to have lunch together today. I made his favorite: soy-braised ribs and rice porridge. He left early, saying he had a meeting. Said he wouldn’t be long. I should’ve known. He’d worn cologne. He never wore cologne for meetings.

Maybe I was the fool. Maybe I always had been.

After all, I was just the one he married when his first love left the country. The convenient choice. The safe one. The one who cooked and cleaned and waited. The one who kissed his shoulder goodnight and cried quietly in the shower when he turned away.

I didn’t know how long I stood there, watching them walk away together, suitcase in hand, under a shared umbrella.

I didn’t cry.

Not until I got home and saw the still-warm ribs on the table.

Then I packed a bag.

And I left.

Because I may have been the safe choice, but I wasn’t anyone’s second option.

Not anymore.

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I shouldn’t have followed them.

But I did.

Maybe I still had a sliver of hope. Maybe I thought—if I could just see it with my own eyes, it would finally kill whatever was left of this love eating me alive.

They checked into a hotel not far from the airport. A boutique place—quiet, discreet. I stayed across the street in the rain, watching until the curtains of Room 504 were drawn shut. My heart was louder than the downpour. My hands were shaking even before I stepped into the building.

I told the front desk I was meeting a friend. Smiled like my heart wasn’t breaking. Walked into the elevator with a calmness I didn’t feel. The hallway to the fifth floor was dim, the carpet muffling my footsteps like the world was trying to soften the blow.

But nothing could.

Not when I heard it.

Soft moans. The creak of a bed. A voice I knew better than my own whispering someone else’s name.

I stood outside the door, my phone in hand. My thumb trembled over the record button.

I shouldn’t have done it.

But I pressed it.

The screen lit up, and I stared at the closed door, recording the sounds of betrayal. My breathing grew uneven. I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood. My tears fell silently, sliding down my chin, mixing with the raindrops on my coat.

I didn’t make a sound.

Because if I did, I would’ve screamed.

I would’ve broken the door down and begged him to look at me—to see me—not as a placeholder, but as the person who gave him everything.

Instead, I stood there like a ghost, filming my own heart shatter. No one in that room knew I was outside. No one cared.

When the silence came—sated and warm and filled with laughter that didn’t belong to me—I turned off the recording.

I stared at my reflection in the dark screen. Red eyes. Pale lips. A quiet nothing.

And that’s when I knew.

There was nothing left for me here.

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