Fatima didn't plan to look through Darren's phone.
It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't insecurity. It was a quiet feeling she couldn't name—something heavy that settled in her chest that morning and refused to leave.
They were together, finally in the same place after days of distance. Darren had travelled from Limpopo, and she had been counting the hours. Long distance had taught her patience, had taught her how to love through screens and late-night calls, how to miss someone even when you trusted them.
That day, he was different.
Quiet. Guarded. Holding his phone a little too close.
"Can I see your phone?" she asked casually, not even looking at him when she said it.
The air changed.
"Why?" Darren asked too quickly.
"I just want to check something," she said, still calm.
He hesitated. Just for a second. But that second told her everything.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing," he replied, forcing a laugh. "You're acting weird."
But when he handed her the phone, his jaw tightened. His eyes followed every movement of her fingers like he already knew what she was about to find.
Fatima didn't know what possessed her to open Facebook first.
Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was God. Maybe it was the part of her that had been crying without knowing why.
Her hands started shaking almost immediately.
Messages. Too many.
Not one girl. Not two.
Names she didn't recognise. Conversations that didn't even try to hide what they were. Compliments. Plans. Familiar jokes—the kind he used on her.
Her heart dropped, but she kept scrolling.
Then she saw her.
Tanica.
The conversation with Tanica was different. Longer. Deeper. More comfortable. Inside jokes. Arguments. Apologies. Affection that felt… established.
This wasn't a fling.
This looked like a girlfriend.
Her chest tightened as she opened Instagram. More messages. More girls. The same patterns. The same lies, repeated effortlessly.
Fatima felt like she was watching someone else's life unfold on a screen.
"Fatima, give me the phone," Darren said sharply.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her voice barely working. "How long?"
"It's not what you think," he said quickly. Too quickly.
She laughed once, short and broken. "Then what is it, Darren? Because it looks like I don't know who I'm dating."
He tried to grab the phone. She pulled it back.
"Don't," she whispered. "Please don't."
That's when she remembered something that made her stomach turn.
Five days ago, she had spent the night with him. She remembered how loved she felt. How safe. How sure.
Then there was that one day.
The day he went completely offline.
No calls. No texts. No explanation.
She had worried. Wondered. Defended him in her mind.
Now she knew.
Tanica had been there.
The same bed. The same space. Right after her.
Fatima felt sick.
"You're overreacting," Darren said, frustration creeping into his voice. "You went through my phone without permission."
She stared at him, disbelief mixing with pain. "You're worried about permission?"
He ran a hand through his hair. "You don't understand—"
"No," she cut in softly. "I understand perfectly."
Her hands were numb. Her chest felt hollow. She wanted to scream, cry, throw the phone across the room—but instead, she just stood there, frozen.
"I loved you," she said quietly.
Darren didn't answer.
And that silence hurt more than everything she had just seen.
That was the day Fatima realised the truth she had been avoiding.
She wasn't imagining things.
She wasn't insecure.
She wasn't crazy.
She had been loyal to someone who never chose her the way she chose him.
And once you see something like that—once the truth looks back at you from a screen—you can never unsee it.