He scrolled to the beginning, two years ago.
Each caption designed to make her look naive. Childlike. Amusing.
Each photo stolen from their private moments.
Dean's chest started to feel tight. His breathing became shallow.
He kept scrolling. Post after post of her vulnerability repackaged as entertainment. Her earnest questions about the world. Her small kindnesses. Her moments of pure, unguarded honesty.
He wanted to claw his own skin off, to somehow escape being the person who had done this.
The comments underneath each post made his vision blur:"this cannot be a real person""she sounds exhausting ngl""your patience is inspiring king""how does she function as an adult""she's got the IQ of a golden retriever"
And underneath that last one—seventeen likes and his own thumbs up. He'dlikedit.
His heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat. He didn’t want to keep reading.
He kept scrolling anyway.
Every beautiful thing about her, turned into a punchline. Every generous impulse, mocked. Every vulnerable moment, monetized.
The comments got meaner the deeper he went.
He'd read every single comment. Had seen strangers call his wife worthless, stupid, pathetic. Had watched them tear apart everything that made her special.
And he'd let it happen.Profitedfrom it.
He'd taken the woman who loved him completely and served her up as entertainment for people who thought sincerity was something to be ashamed of.
He'd called himself her husband and yet he’d let strangers call her stupid, laughed along when people mocked her kindness.
He'd taken the things she trusted him with and sold them for likes.
In the cramped space of her old car—the car he should have replaced years ago, the car that represented every way he'd let her settle for less—Dean finally saw himself clearly.
He wasn't a husband. He wasn't even a decent person.
He was a parasite. A predator. Someone who'd taken the most precious thing in his life and fed it to strangers for validation.
Fiona had loved him with her whole heart. Had trusted him with her softest parts. Had believed he saw her as worthy, valuable, enough.
And he'd turned around and made her the butt of a joke for twenty thousand strangers.
He’d betrayed her. He’d thought himself better than her—better, somehow, than the woman who spent her days loving him, supporting him, working each day in her classroom.
How?
How could he be better thanthat? Thanher?
She wasn’t the idiot.
Hewas. The fool. The coward.
He thought about her face when she finally understood. The way she'd looked at him like he was a stranger. Like he was dangerous.
Because he was.
He'd been dangerous to her from the moment he decided her love was content instead of sacred.
