It was subtle, almost easy to miss. Daniel came home late, his tie loosened, his shirt wrinkled. He kissed my cheek quickly, too quickly, and tossed his jacket on the chair before disappearing into the shower. I went to hang up his shirt, grumbling about how he never did it himself. That’s when I saw it.
A faint smear of lipstick on the collar. Not my shade. Not even close. Mine was soft nude, understated. This was bold—a deep crimson that I recognized instantly. Emily’s favorite. My sister’s.
The room tilted. My hand tightened on the fabric, the smear staring back at me like a scarlet confession. I pressed the collar to my nose, the faint scent of her perfume still lingering. Vanilla and amber. The same scent I’d bought her last Christmas. The same scent I’d smelled on him before, but told myself I was imagining.
When he came out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, steam curling into the hallway, I held the shirt up. My voice shook. “Whose lipstick is this?”
He froze. His eyes flicked from the shirt to my face. “It’s nothing,” he muttered.
“Nothing?” I snapped, tears burning my eyes. “Daniel, it’s her color. It’s Emily’s.”
His silence was louder than denial.
That night, I drove straight to Emily’s apartment. She opened the door with her lips painted that same crimson, her eyes wide the second she saw the shirt in my hand.
“You didn’t even bother to wipe it off,” I hissed.
Her hand flew to her mouth, her lipstick smearing. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“You’re sorry?” My voice cracked. “Emily, you left your mark on him like you wanted me to find it. Was this some kind of game to you?”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. He told me he felt trapped, that he loved me. I thought—”
“You thought what?” I cut her off. “That betraying your sister was love? That smearing your lipstick on his shirt was romance?”
She sobbed, but I turned away before I drowned in her excuses.
Later, alone in my room, I stared at the shirt hanging in my closet. I couldn’t bring myself to wash it. The stain was ugly, but it was honest. A red flag made permanent.
Final Thought
Lipstick is supposed to be a mark of beauty, of confidence, of love. But on his collar, it became a mark of betrayal. A reminder that sometimes the truth doesn’t come in words—it comes in stains you can’t wash away.
