'One tap on my partner's Spotify, and I unravelled the secret double life he'd been hiding.'

We'd been together 18 months. Long enough that the "what if we moved in together" conversations had started to feel real. We'd daydream about suburbs, laugh about who'd hog the doona, debate over couches.

I thought I'd finally found my person.

Which is why, at a Sunday barbecue with friends, it didn't feel like a big deal when I picked up his phone to change the music.

I'd never touched it before. Not once. Dan* wasn't secretive, but he'd never offered it up either. Still, the playlist was dire, the phone was right there, and I figured, what's the harm?

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The screen lit up in my hand. I should have just gone to Spotify, found a playlist, pressed play. But I'm nosy. Always have been. So I poked around.

The air smelled of sausages and sunscreen. Someone's kid was squealing in the pool. Everything felt ordinary. Until it didn't.

Spotify settings. A family plan. Nothing weird about that, except it was managed by "Mum."

I laughed out loud. "Oh my god, you're still on your mum's Spotify account at thirty-three?"

It was a joke. But his reaction wasn't funny. He crossed the patio in two strides, chair scraping on the bricks, and snatched the phone from my hand like I'd just opened his tax return.

"That's private," he snapped, shoving it into his pocket.

The conversation around us stuttered. My face burned hot. It was just Spotify. Why would he care? The moment passed, but the unease stuck.

A few nights later, wine glasses and cheeseboard spread across Sarah*'s table. I told my friends the story. They laughed at first, until Sarah tilted her head.

"What if 'Mum' isn't his mum?" she said. "What if it's his wife?"

The words punched the air out of me.

I shook my head.

"No. We've been together over a year. We're talking about living together. He can't be married."

But Sarah was already typing. It didn't take much. A Facebook tag. A LinkedIn profile. An address that wasn't the apartment I'd been to.

And then the photos. Holiday snaps. Christmas mornings. A woman smiling at the camera, his arm snug around her waist. Two children with his exact blue eyes. My stomach lurched. This information had all been so close this entire time? Sarah put her hand on mine.

"You have to call him."

I did. Right then.

"Who's your wife, Dan?" I said, my voice shaking. "And those kids? The ones who look just like you?" Silence.

Then a laugh, sharp and cruel. "What are you even talking about? Don't be crazy."

Gaslighting, smooth as silk. But I'd seen too much.

"We found the photos. The address. The Facebook tags. You've got a wife. You've got kids. I've been the other woman for eighteen months."

A pause. A muttered curse. And then his tone flipped, the bravado gone.

"Please," he begged, voice cracking. "Don't tell her. Don't ruin my family. I'm begging you."

The audacity made my stomach twist. He wasn't begging for me, for us, for our relationship. He was begging me to protect his secret. I hung up.

We didn't live together, but he'd left little pieces of himself at mine. A toothbrush. A hoodie. A charger. A few shirts shoved in my drawers. A bottle of aftershave. I gathered it all into a box. The detritus of a relationship I thought was real.

Then I drove it to the address Sarah had found, the house he shared with his wife. I left the box on the doorstep. No note. No knock. Just proof he'd been there, in my life, where he didn't belong.

At first, I didn't tell her. I thought maybe the box was enough. Maybe she'd see it and know. Maybe she'd ask him questions, demand answers, find her own way to the truth. But the weight of it crushed me. So a week later, I messaged her.

My hands shook as I typed, my heart pounding. I told her everything, apologising over and over, assuring her I never knew about her, about their kids. That I was sorry, so, so sorry for the pain it must cause.

I braced myself for questions. For anger. For tears. But her reply was ice.

Just a short, clipped message. Cold. Like she'd heard it all before. And then nothing.

It's been six months. I haven't heard from her again. I haven't heard from him either. My friends check sometimes, and their snooping shows that he and his wife are still together.

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At first, that knowledge cut me in half. I wanted her to kick him out, to scream, to burn the whole thing down. Instead, the silence told me more than words ever could. This wasn't the first time. Maybe it wasn't even the second.

Seems like my story was just another chapter in his double life. And hers too.

At first, thinking about that gutted me. I thought my truth-telling would shatter their life the way it had shattered mine.

And maybe that's the hardest part, learning that the explosion you expect never comes.

*Names have been changed to protect privacy.

Feature image: Getty (Stock image for illustrative purposes)