When Maya’s husband, Jason, says he wants to sleep in the guest room because of her snoring, she doesn’t think much of it—until a late-night message changes everything. What she discovers isn’t an affair, but something even worse.
For most of their marriage, Maya and Jason shared a bed like any normal couple. She would fall asleep to the sound of him typing or turning book pages, and they’d wake up tangled together, exchanging sleepy jokes.
So when Jason suggested separate rooms, Maya thought he was joking.
“I love you, but your snoring is getting worse,” he said one night while brushing his teeth.
She laughed. “You’ve teased me about this for years. Now it’s suddenly a problem?”
Jason insisted he just needed uninterrupted sleep to recharge because of work. But when Maya noticed he had packed a small bag—like he was staying away longer than just a night or two—something didn’t feel right.?
At first, Maya was more embarrassed than hurt by her husband’s decision to sleep in the guest room. He had a lot of steps in his nighttime routine—eyedrops, medication, and sprays for his leg cramps. That night, he moved into the guest room without much conversation.
Maya tried everything to fix the situation: she used sleep apps, drank herbal teas like Dream Whisper, and even wore nasal strips. She propped herself up with pillows, hoping not to snore, but Jason stayed in the guest room.
“Don’t take it personally,” he told her one morning. “I’m just finally getting good sleep.”
But things weren’t just about sleep anymore. Jason started bringing his phone charger and laptop into the guest room and began locking the door, saying it was because she might sleepwalk.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’d rather be safe in here,” he explained.
Maya was confused. She’d never sleepwalked in her life.
A week later, Jason started using the guest bathroom. His toiletries—razors, cologne, shampoo—were all moved there. It wasn’t just a temporary thing. He was living in the guest room.
Maya tried to reason with herself, thinking it was just a phase. She told herself that marriages change and stretch, and maybe her husband was simply exhausted.
But deep down, something was bothering Maya, a quiet feeling she couldn’t shake. Then one night, everything changed.
It was around 2:30 A.M. when she woke up feeling panicked, as if something was wrong. She reached out, but the sheets next to her were cold.
“Get a grip, Maya,” she told herself, trying to calm down.
She sat up, and at that moment, Jason’s phone lit up on their nightstand. It was strange; he never left his phone there anymore.
Maya picked it up, thinking he had forgotten it while getting ready for work.
The screen lit up again with a message:
“Can you call me when she’s asleep? – Lana”
Her heart sank. Who was Lana? And why was she texting at 2:30 A.M.?
Why did it feel like she wasn’t meant to see this conversation?
Maya didn’t want to know, but she felt like she had to—for the sake of herself and their marriage.
The house felt unnervingly quiet as she walked toward the guest room. The door was slightly open, and she could hear Jason’s voice. The light inside was on.
She opened the door a crack and saw Jason sitting at the desk, wearing a headset and smiling at his laptop screen. He was whispering.
Was he talking to Lana?
“No, she thinks it’s the snoring,” he was saying, chuckling. “I told you, she has no clue.”
Maya quietly closed the door and stood in the dark, her heart racing. She didn’t cry or scream, but everything felt different now.
“Not yet, Maya,” I told myself. “Let’s figure this out the right way.”
I needed proof.
The next morning, Maya made Jason his usual breakfast—eggs and bacon—and kissed his cheek as if nothing had happened.
“I’m going to the office for a few hours, Maya,” Jason said. “But I’ll come back to work from here and pick up lunch on the way.”
“That’s great, honey,” Maya replied, sipping her coffee. “I’ll be here, editing videos for a marketing campaign at work.”
Jason didn’t say much in return. He never really acknowledged her career in marketing, always thinking it wasn’t good enough. He once told her, “You could do so much more, Maya… like something that makes more money, but anyway, it’s up to you.”
What Jason didn’t know was that, while he was whispering to Lana the night before, Maya had backed up his phone to their shared cloud, preparing to investigate.
Maya sat down with her laptop and phone on the couch, planning to take some time to figure out what was going on with Jason and Lana.
At first, the messages between Jason and Lana didn’t seem romantic, so Maya thought she might have misunderstood. But as she read more, she realized the texts were constant and obsessive, with Jason asking for a lot of reassurance.
“Are you sure I’m doing okay, Lana? Am I cut out for this?” he asked in one message.
There were dozens of messages every day—voice notes, screen shares, PDFs, Excel files, and marketing materials. Phrases like “pitch psychology” and “closing energy” filled the conversation.
Lana appeared to be in her mid-forties and called herself a “business mentor.” But something about what she was selling didn’t seem right.
Jason had spent thousands of dollars—$19,000 to be exact—on Lana’s coaching program that promised to make him an “online millionaire.”
“What is this?” Maya muttered, realizing it might be a scam. “Another pyramid scheme? Damn it, Jason.”
This wasn’t the first time Jason had gotten involved in something questionable. He had once bought five boxes of face serums that were supposed to be “liquid gold,” but no one, except for family and friends, had bought them. Eventually, Maya gave them away at her book club just to get rid of the stock.
“I don’t understand what went wrong, Maya,” Jason had said at the time. “Everything was perfect… I read the proposals! They were supposed to sell!”
“Well, we’re not keeping them,” Maya had replied. “We can’t have them sitting in the garage.”
Jason sighed like it was her fault he was in this mess.
Now, just two years later, Jason had fallen for another scheme. Maya kept digging and found a message where Lana had told him to visualize “next-level abundance” while journaling about “blockages of belief.”
And Jason had bought into it completely.
He wasn’t cheating; he was spending their savings on a fantasy.
“No, she doesn’t ask questions,” he had written in a message. “She just thinks I’m tired. I’ll show her when the checks start rolling in. She’ll thank me later.”
Maya’s hands shook when she read that. It explained everything—the separate rooms, the locked door. It wasn’t about sleep; it was about hiding his lies.
When she confronted him, she didn’t yell or throw the phone. She didn’t give him any reason to call her emotional.
Instead, she waited until dinner, when they were having grilled chicken, corn, and guacamole. She let Jason pour his whiskey and take the first bite before speaking calmly.
“I found the messages,” she said. “With Lana.”
Jason blinked slowly, like he hadn’t decided how to respond yet. Then he smiled—like a child caught sneaking cookies, not a man who was destroying his marriage.
“You’re not supposed to see this,” Jason said at first. No apology, no shame—just annoyance that she had found out.
“I did this for us,” he continued, swirling his drink. “You wouldn’t understand high-level strategy, Maya.”
Maya calmly set down her fork. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was final.
She wanted to say so much. She wanted to ask if he remembered their honeymoon, when they laughed over ramen in a tiny apartment. She wanted to ask if he knew how long she had been holding her breath for their future.
But instead, she said, “No, I do get it. You didn’t trust me enough to fail honestly. You gambled our future and kept me in the dark, like I was something to hide.”
Jason rolled his eyes, as if she were nagging him about something trivial.
“Don’t be dramatic, Maya.”
He said her name like she was a child throwing a tantrum, like he hadn’t just broken their marriage with his silence and selfishness.
“You lied to my face for months, Jason.”
“I didn’t lie,” he replied. “I just didn’t tell you.”
That was the moment everything changed for Maya. It wasn’t the money or the emotional betrayal—it was how he looked at her. Like she was too small to understand him. Like love didn’t matter to him anymore.
Two weeks later, Maya filed for divorce.
Jason didn’t argue. Maybe he thought he’d win her back someday, when the money came in or his “empire” took off. But the only thing that disappeared was Lana’s website—gone without a trace, no refund, no apology, no empire.
A month later, Jason messaged her.
“I hope you’re well. I have a new mentor. This one is different. Not like Lana and her lies. There’s a real opportunity this time.”
Maya didn’t respond. She blocked his number.
Now, the guest room is hers. She repainted it sage green, bought a secondhand bookshelf, and filled it with poetry and old books. She even found a small wind chime that sings in the breeze. The walls don’t hold secrets anymore.
She still snores sometimes, loudly, but now, no one moves away from her or pretends she’s the problem. No one hides their lies behind a locked door.
Last week at the bookstore, a man asked if the book I was holding was worth reading. We ended up talking for thirty minutes about literature, life, and finding your way again.
There was no flirting, no pressure—just a genuine conversation.
After he left, I stayed in the poetry section a little longer, holding the book like it could save me.
Maybe it did. Because for the first time in a long while, I felt something grow in the quiet. It wasn’t hope, love, or closure—just peace.
Now, I sleep alone. The door is open, my phone is unplugged, and my dreams aren’t weighed down by anything.
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This story is inspired by real events and people, but it’s been changed for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been altered to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any similarities to real people or events are purely coincidental.
The author and publisher do not claim the events or character portrayals are accurate and are not responsible for any misinterpretation. This story is offered “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters, not the author or publisher.