He wasn't coming home sad. He was coming home drained from fucking strangers. Read how a single, vulgar reflection tore my life in half.

Leo was the perfect, safe bet. Adorably awkward, soft-spoken, the kind of guy who’d choose a library over a club. His only burden was his childhood friend, "Jake." Leo would visit him and return devastated. "He's just... destroying himself," Leo would whisper, head in his hands. "Another orgy, another failed rehab. I have to be there for him, but it’s killing me to watch." I’d soothe him, proud of my man’s loyalty, oblivious that I was nursing a hangover he earned by pretending to be someone else.

"Jake" was the excuse for everything. Late nights. Weekend "interventions." The smell of strange perfume, explained away with a sigh: "I had to pull him out of some girl's apartment. It's so toxic."

The discovery wasn't dramatic. A friend sent me a viral Instagram profile as a joke. "Look at this wannabe mystery fuckboy in our city!" It was a feed of decadence: private jets, hotel suites, blurred-out women. The face was never shown. I scrolled with eye-rolling disdain until a photo made my blood stop.

It was a mirror selfie in a penthouse bathroom. The phone covered the face. The focus was on a toned torso, completely naked. And there, on the inner wrist resting on the marble counter, was the tattoo: the unique geometric wolf I’d designed for Leo. My eyes darted to the mirror’s edge, reflecting the person taking the shot. The angle showed just the jaw, the smile, and the birthmark on his neck. It was Leo. My Leo. Proudly documenting his own naked body for thousands of followers.

The pieces shattered. The "troubled friend" was his own secret persona. His "sadness" was the fatigue of maintaining two lives. His "loyalty" was the perfect alibi. I wasn't a girlfriend; I was his beard, his emotional dumpster, the pathetic cover story for his real, hidden life.

I didn’t confront him. I screen-recorded everything. I then sent him a text: "Jake's really out of control. Saw a pic of him online. Naked. With YOUR tattoo. And YOUR face in the mirror. Should we stage an intervention?"

The silence that followed was louder than any lie. He showed up at my door, not as my shy Leo, but with a cold, furious glare I’d never seen. The mask was off. "It’s a creative outlet. You wouldn’t get it. I needed more than… this," he said, waving dismissively at our life.