I opened his phone.
There was nothing.
No messages. No call logs. No chats.
Spotless.
Too spotless.
The kind of clean that doesn't come from innocence, but from erasure.
And yet, something remained.
A single thread.
A name that glowed green against the emptiness: "Camellia"
I froze.
The profile picture was simple, but it said enough.
A camellia flower.
A woman's face framed by soft makeup, a white blouse. Eyes that carried a quiet confidence, almost seductive.
I had never seen her before, but somehow… I already knew.
I searched her on Facebook.
Camellia- she is an employee at a solar energy company with the title "Sales Admin"
The same company he once described as dull, full of people who didn't even bother to talk to each other.
But in one photo, there they were, sitting across from each other, smiling, leaning in.
As if the picture itself was whispering a truth I had tried so hard to deny.
A silent declaration of possession.
I sat there for a long time, staring at her page, at her smile, at the illusion of "innocence" she carried so well.
And then I did something I thought I'd never do.
I dialled her number.
The ringtone felt endless.
Every second stretched into an eternity.
When she answered, her voice was calm, almost too calm.
That night, I did not cry.
Not because I wasn't in pain.
But because the tears had already run dry, long before this call.
What filled me instead was something sharper than grief, a clarity I had been too afraid to touch.
The truth was here, in her voice, in her name, in the silence that followed.
And I understood, with a heaviness I could no longer escape: Some betrayals are not discovered.
They are confessed without a word.