I came home two hours earlier than usual and immediately heard strange sounds coming from our bedroom. At first, I thought burglars had broken into the apartment, but at that moment my husband came out of the bedroom — completely naked 
But I wasn’t even looking at him, because in the bedroom there was something that made me freeze in horror
I never believed in premonitions. I always considered myself a rational person: if there are no facts, there’s no reason to imagine things. But that day, when I came home two hours earlier than usual, everything inside me tightened the moment I reached the door.
We had lived together for many years. An ordinary life, an ordinary apartment. In recent months, he had changed: irritable, distant, often absent. He said it was work, difficulties, something temporary. I believed him. I didn’t want to think about the worst.
That day, the meeting was canceled. I finished earlier and decided to surprise him. I stopped by the store, bought groceries, and thought about setting up a quiet evening. On the way, I even caught myself smiling, remembering how we used to be.
I opened the door quietly. And I immediately understood that something was happening in the apartment. Voices could be heard.
For a moment, the thought of burglars crossed my mind. But then I realized the sounds were coming from the bedroom. My heart started pounding, and my legs carried me down the hallway on their own.
I threw the door open.
My husband was standing in the doorway. Completely naked, disheveled, confident, even satisfied. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t embarrassed. He just smiled, as if I had walked in at the wrong moment.
I was already ready to scream. Because in the bedroom there was something that literally paralyzed me.
And if you think there was a mistress there — you’re wrong. Continued in the first comment 
There was a camera in the room. On a tripod. Pointed straight at the bed. Next to it were lights, a microphone, a phone — everything neatly arranged. My husband was filming something.
I slowly shifted my gaze to him.
— What is this? — was all I managed to say.
At first, he brushed it off. Said it was “nothing,” that I had misunderstood everything. Then he sat down, sighed, and suddenly began speaking calmly, as if explaining something ordinary.
It turned out he had been fired several months earlier. He hadn’t told anyone. Not me, not his friends. He pretended to go to work, pretended to stay late, pretended to be tired.
And then he found a “way out.”
Content. Social media. Followers. Donations. He talked about it without shame. Even with a strange sense of excitement. He said this was now his new job. That people pay for “reality,” for “honesty,” for the body, for exposure.
— It’s just filming, — he said. — Nothing personal.
I stared at the camera and understood nothing. Silently, I turned around, walked into the hallway, and closed the bedroom door behind me.
At that moment, I realized: betrayal isn’t always about another woman. Sometimes it’s about being erased from someone’s life and replaced with likes and strangers’ eyes.
