Music has always been sacred to me. Songs aren’t just melodies—they’re memories. The first dance at our wedding, the playlists I made for long drives, the lullabies I hummed absentmindedly while cooking dinner. Every song carried a piece of us, woven into the rhythm of our love. That’s why, when I found out my husband had taken the very playlist from our wedding and used it for his secret dates with another woman, it broke me in a way I didn’t know was possible.
It started with something small. I was cleaning the living room when his phone buzzed on the coffee table. Normally, I wouldn’t have touched it, but a notification flashed across the screen—Spotify. A shared playlist update. That struck me as odd. My husband wasn’t the type to share playlists with anyone except me.
Curiosity tugged at me. I opened it.
The title froze me in place: Our Nights.
I scrolled through the list of songs, my chest tightening with every track. The first one? The song we danced to at our wedding. The next? The ballad that played when he proposed. The third? The song I once told him reminded me of the night we first kissed.
Every song was ours. Our history, our story—stitched together into a playlist. Except it wasn’t mine anymore.
At the bottom, I saw it. The collaborator’s name. A woman’s account. Not mine.
My stomach twisted as I clicked her profile, and there it was—photos of her. Dinner dates, city walks, blurry selfies late at night. In the captions were hints: “Our song.” “He always remembers the little things.”
My husband’s face wasn’t in the photos, but his absence screamed louder than his presence ever could.
When he came home that evening, I was waiting in the living room, his phone in my hand. He smiled when he saw me, but it faltered when he noticed my expression.
“Where were you?” I asked quietly.
“Working late,” he said automatically, loosening his tie.
I held up the phone, the playlist glowing on the screen. “Who is she?”
His face drained of color. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?” I snapped, my voice breaking. “Because it looks like you took the most meaningful parts of our life—our songs, our memories—and handed them to someone else.”
He stammered, searching for words, but none came. The silence was louder than any confession.
Tears streamed down my face as I shoved the phone at him. “Do you know what music means to me? To us? You didn’t just cheat on me—you rewrote our story and gave it to her.”
That night, I sat alone with the playlist, headphones pressed to my ears. Each song felt like a blade, slicing through memories I once cherished. Our first dance no longer belonged to me. Our song wasn’t ours anymore. He had stolen the soundtrack of my life and turned it into the background music for his betrayal.
Final Thought
Some betrayals aren’t about what’s said or even what’s done. Sometimes they’re about what’s stolen—the little things that make love feel unique. My husband used my wedding playlist for his secret dates, and in doing so, he proved something cruel: love can be plagiarized. And now, when I hear those songs, I don’t remember my vows. I remember the lie.
