For years, Jason and I shared a bed like any ordinary couple. I’d fall asleep to the familiar sound of his typing or the rustle of his book. Some mornings we woke up tangled together, laughing when he teased, “You drooled on me again.” It wasn’t perfect, but it was real.
So when he one night suggested he’d sleep in the guest room, I thought he was joking.
“Babe, I love you,” he said, toothbrush in hand. “But your snoring is next-level. I’m exhausted.”
I laughed. “You’ve made bear jokes for years — now it’s a dealbreaker?”
He just shrugged. “I need uninterrupted sleep. Work’s draining me.” That night, he disappeared into the guest room with a packed bag, charger, laptop — his whole routine — without an argument or real conversation. Just… gone.
At first, I was embarrassed. I tried sleep apps, herbal teas, nasal strips — even sat upright like some ghost bride to stop my snoring. Nothing worked. Jason stayed locked away.
“Don’t take it personally,” he said over coffee one morning. “I’m finally sleeping.”
But it wasn’t just about sleep. He started showering in the guest bathroom, moved all his toiletries over, even locked the door, claiming it was in case I sleepwalked. I had never sleepwalked. Yet he acted like I was some midnight marauder.
He wasn’t just sleeping there — he was living there.
Then one night around 2:30 a.m., I woke to silence. Jason’s phone was sitting on our nightstand — odd, because he never left it behind. I picked it up and a single text lit the screen:
“Can you call me when she’s asleep? — Lana.”
My stomach dropped. Who was Lana? Why did she know when I was supposed to be asleep?
I silently crept toward the guest room. The door was cracked, light spilling out. Inside, Jason sat at his desk with a headset, smiling at his laptop screen.
“No, she thinks it’s the snoring,” he whispered into his mic. “She has no clue.”
My heart pounded so loudly I thought he’d hear it.
The next morning, I acted normal — made him breakfast, kissed his cheek — but inside I was unsettled. I’d already backed up his phone to our shared cloud account.
What I found wasn’t romantic messages. It was obsessive communication between Jason and Lana — so many late night texts, voice notes, PDFs, sales funnels and desperate asks for validation.
Lana wasn’t a lover. She was a business mentor — a woman in her mid-forties promising to make him an online millionaire. And Jason had paid her $19,000.
It wasn’t an affair in the usual sense… it felt worse. He wasn’t betraying me with someone else’s body. He was siphoning our future — draining our savings into what looked like a get-rich-quick scam.
That night at dinner I finally said it:
“I found the messages. With Lana.”
Jason blinked, then smiled — like a kid caught sneaking cookies.
“You weren’t supposed to see this,” he said sheepishly. “I did it for us. You just don’t understand high-level strategy.”
I set my fork down.
“No, Jason. You didn’t trust me enough to fail honestly. You locked me out… and gambled our future.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Don’t be dramatic, Maya.”
And that was it. Not the money. Not even the secrets. The way he looked at me — like I was small. Two weeks later, I filed for divorce.
Jason didn’t fight it. Lana’s website vanished shortly after — no refund. No empire. A month later he texted casually:
“I have a new mentor. This one’s different.” I blocked him.
Now, the guest room is mine. I painted it sage green, filled it with books and candles, and hung a wind chime. The walls don’t hold secrets anymore.
I still snore sometimes — perhaps loudly. But now, no one moves away. No one locks me out.
Last week at a bookstore, a man asked me about the poetry collection I was holding. We talked for thirty minutes — about literature, life, and finding your footing again. No flirting. Just presence.
For the first time in a long while, I feel peace.
I sleep alone — door open, phone unplugged, dreams unburdened.
