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It started as one of those lazy Sunday
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afternoons where you're just scrolling
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the internet, half bored, half curious.
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I'd recently discovered this website
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that let you watch live street cams from
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all over the world, bustling city
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corners, quiet parks, even beach
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boardwalks. It was oddly calming, like
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people watching without leaving the
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couch. I was just clicking around,
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hopping from Tokyo to Paris, then to a
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few random feeds in my own city. That's
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when I landed on one I'd never seen
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before. A camera pointing at a busy
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downtown intersection right outside a
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coffee shop I'd been to a dozen times.
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People hurried past with shopping bags.
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Others sat on benches sipping lattes.
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And then my heart skipped a beat. I saw
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her, my wife. She was wearing the deep
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green jacket I'd given her last winter
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and the cream scarf her mother had
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knitted. At first, I smiled. Maybe fate
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had given me a sweet surprise, catching
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her in a random camera feed like this.
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But then I saw him. A tall man with dark
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hair walked up to her. She lit up the
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way she used to when she saw me. They
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hugged. Not a quick friendly one, but
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slow, warm, lingering. Then she kissed
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him. Not on the cheek, not an innocent
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peck. It was full, intimate. I froze. My
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mind scrambled for explanations. A
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co-orker, an old friend, maybe a cousin
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I'd never met. But deep down, my gut
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knew. I stared, unable to blink,
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watching them laugh together, her hand
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on his arm, his fingers brushing a loose
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strand of her hair back like it was the
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most natural thing in the world. And
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then it hit me. She wasn't supposed to
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be anywhere near downtown. Just an hour
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earlier, she texted me a picture of her
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helping at her sister's house. I checked
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the time on the live cam feed. It
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matched perfectly with when she'd sent
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that photo. My stomach twisted. She had
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lied so casually, so smoothly. It made
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me wonder how many times she'd done it
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before. I quickly hit record on my
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screen, capturing everything. The kiss,
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the embrace, the way they walked into
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the coffee shop together, hand in hand.
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I wasn't going to confront her with just
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my word against hers. I needed proof.
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The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I
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paced the living room, rehearsing what I
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would say, my anger boiling over, but
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held in check by one thought. I needed
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her to confess. I needed to hear her
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admit it. When she came home that
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evening, she was all sunshine. She
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kissed me hello, told me her sister sent
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leftovers, and asked about my day. I
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swallowed the bile rising in my throat,
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and played along. We sat down to eat,
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and halfway through, I pulled out my
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phone and slid it across the table. On
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the screen was the frozen image of her
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lips pressed against his. Her smile
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vanished instantly. She stared at the
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phone, then at me, and whispered, "It's
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not what it looks like." I didn't even
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speak. I tapped the screen and the video
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began to play. Her kiss, their laughter,
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their hand in hand walk into the cafe.
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She didn't deny it anymore. She just sat
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there, eyes wet, mouth trembling,
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searching for words that wouldn't come.
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I think that silence, that guilt written
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all over her face, hurt more than any
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excuse she could have made. I pushed
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back from the table, my appetite gone.
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You could have told me, I said quietly.
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You could have ended this before
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breaking me like this. She tried to
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reach for my hand, but I pulled away.
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That night, I slept on the couch,
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staring at the ceiling, listening to the
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occasional muffled sob from the bedroom.
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In the morning, she was gone. A note on
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the counter said she was sorry and
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needed time to think. But the truth is,
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I don't need her to think. I don't need
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her to explain because I already saw it
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all. On a random street cam that I'll
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probably never watch again. And maybe
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that's the crulest twist of all. The
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technology that entertained me for weeks
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became the thing that destroyed my
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marriage in seconds. Now, when I walk
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past that coffee shop in real life, I
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don't see a cozy place for lattes
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anymore. I see the exact spot where my
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world ended in front of a camera that
