"Hey," she said, voice low. "Did I wake you?"
I didn't answer that. I just asked, "Why does your best friend kiss you like that when she drops you off?"
The glass paused midair. A single drop of water spilled onto her wrist. She set it down without drinking.
"What are you talking about?"
I held up my phone, screen still glowing. Her eyes flicked to the image frozen on it: her hand in Camille's hair, Camille's fingers on her waist. She didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't lie.
She just said, "You wouldn't understand."
That was all: four words. No panic, no excuses, just a simple statement that cut deeper than any shouting match ever could.
I walked away into our room, locked the door, and for the next six hours, I didn't sleep. I watched that clip on loop. I studied every frame, every gesture, and in my mind, I replayed every conversation I'd had with Riley over the last year.
There was that weekend she said she needed space and booked a solo cabin trip. She claimed it was for journaling and wine, but her phone had pinged nonstop.
There was Camille's birthday party where they disappeared for nearly an hour and returned laughing, cheeks red. She said they'd just gone to pick up takeout from down the block.
There was the night Camille crashed on our couch and Riley insisted I sleep in the guest room just for privacy.
At the time, I told myself they were just close, that women are different about boundaries. Now, I saw it differently. They weren't just close. They were careful, calculated, quiet.
I didn't yell. I didn't ask follow-up questions. I didn't confront her again. Instead, I downloaded the clip, saved it three times: to the cloud, to a hard drive, and to a private folder. Then, I made a backup just in case.
At 3:12 a.m., I stood outside on the porch watching our dark street while the clip played one more time in my hand. She didn't even check to see if the camera was recording. She either forgot or didn't care. That's when I knew this wasn't a one-time mistake. This was something she believed she could hide in plain sight. Maybe because Camille was a woman. Maybe because she thought I'd never question it.
But I was done protecting her feelings. If she believed I wouldn't understand, then maybe her mom would.