I encourage my boyfriend to talk to other girls and go out with them, but he only wants my company. Once, I invited him and my female friend to a restaurant, but at the last minute, I pretended I was sick. I said they could still go without me.

He hesitated at first. Said it wouldn’t feel right if I wasn’t there. But I nudged him gently over text, insisting that I trusted both of them and didn’t want my sudden “flu” to ruin their evening. So he went.

I watched them on Find My iPhone, sitting alone on the couch with a blanket wrapped around me, not sick, not even close. I had showered earlier, curled my hair like I was preparing for something, but instead just stayed home—waiting.

It wasn’t a trap. Not exactly.

I just wanted to see. See how he’d act. See if she would cross a line. See if I’d feel something—jealousy, pride, fear. Maybe all three.

My friend’s name was Clara. We’d known each other since high school. She was gorgeous, always had a way of drawing people in, like gravity, but never malicious. Just effortlessly charming. The kind of girl guys remembered.

The idea came to me a week earlier when we were all at a coffee shop. Clara had complimented Noah—my boyfriend—on his laugh, saying it was rare to meet someone who actually laughed with their whole face. He smiled, thanked her, and glanced at me like he was checking if it was okay to smile.

That night I thought, what if I just… let him? What if I invited the moment in instead of guarding the door?

So there I was, watching the dot move on the map, refreshing more than I needed to, overthinking every minute they spent at the restaurant.

When he came back, Noah brought me soup. Tomato basil. Still warm. And a loaf of that crusty bread I liked from the bakery next door.

He kissed my forehead and tucked the blanket around me tighter.

“You missed a good night,” he said, sitting at the edge of the bed.

“How was it?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“She’s funny. You two together must’ve been trouble in high school.”

That was all he said. No spark in his voice, no hidden excitement. Just a quiet compliment, like you’d give a coworker.

That should’ve reassured me.

But I did it again.

Different day, different friend. This time it was Maya—an old classmate from college. We’d recently reconnected and gone out for drinks. I invited both her and Noah to an art exhibit downtown and again, at the last minute, I “got sick.”

Noah didn’t want to go. Said it was weird, again, but I pressed.

“She’s cool,” I told him. “And you love art. I’ll feel better knowing someone’s enjoying it.”

So he went.

And again, nothing happened. He came home, told me Maya was intense in a fun way and knew way too much about postmodern sculpture. He had a small brochure from the exhibit, and even picked up a little postcard with an abstract sketch he said reminded him of me.

This pattern continued for a few months.

Each time, a different girl. Each time, a subtle test.

Noah passed every single one.

Never flirted, never lingered. Always came back to me with stories, gifts, and the same affection in his eyes.

And still—I kept setting up these scenarios.

Maybe it wasn’t about him at all.

Maybe I was waiting for someone to fail. To hurt me first, so I wouldn’t have to wait for the other shoe to drop.

You see, I had been cheated on before. Twice.

The first time, I found out through a tagged photo. The second time, the guy told me flat out, mid-argument, like he was bored of hiding it.

I had learned early that if you don’t brace for impact, it’ll break your ribs when it hits.

So I braced, always.

Even when Noah did absolutely nothing wrong.

One night, we were watching a movie on his couch. He paused it during a quiet scene and turned to me.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Why do you keep doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Sending me on… dates. With your friends.”

My chest tightened. He’d never called them that.

“I don’t think of them as dates,” I said quickly. “I just want you to feel free.”

“But I already do,” he said, simply. “I feel free with you. I feel like I can breathe when I’m with you.”

I didn’t know what to say.

He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “Sometimes it feels like you’re daring me to cheat.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

He wasn’t wrong.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling for hours, thinking about the weight I had unknowingly put on him. The pressure to prove his loyalty again and again.

I started to question myself.

Why did I keep doing it, really?

And I realized—I was afraid of being happy.

Happy meant vulnerable. Happy meant you had something to lose.

I didn’t know how to just be loved without preparing for betrayal.

Two weeks passed. I stopped setting him up.

We started having more honest conversations. I told him about my past, the betrayals, the knots in my stomach that wouldn’t untangle. He listened. Held my hand. Told me I didn’t have to be perfect to be loved.

I believed him, mostly.

Then came the twist.

One evening, I saw a message on his phone screen as he left it face-up on the table. A notification from someone named Leah.

The message read: “Last night was perfect. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

My heart sank.

My first instinct was to scream. My second was to cry. My third was to do nothing at all.

He came back into the room holding two mugs of hot chocolate.

I didn’t say anything.

Not then.

But later that night, while he was asleep, I looked through the messages.

What I found wasn’t what I expected.

Leah was his sister.

She’d recently broken up with someone and stayed at his place overnight. They’d gone out for dinner and then walked through the city, talking for hours. She had texted him out of gratitude, not romance.

But I wouldn’t have known that if I hadn’t looked.

And suddenly, I realized—this was who I had become.

A person who needed proof. Constant reassurance. Someone who snooped instead of asking.

I felt ashamed.

I started therapy not long after that.

Not because Noah asked. He never gave me ultimatums.

But because I knew something had to change.

It took months of unpacking to understand that trust isn’t about being sure someone won’t hurt you. It’s about being okay even if they do. About knowing you’ll survive it. And maybe, just maybe, being brave enough to stop looking for pain before it comes.

Noah stayed.

Through it all.

One day, I asked him why.

He smiled. “Because you’re honest. Even when it’s messy.”

Years later, we’re still together.

We got married in a tiny ceremony in the woods. Just us, two witnesses, and a dog that wandered into the scene and ended up in every photo.

Clara came. So did Maya. Both gave me long hugs and told me I’d found someone rare.

I think they were right.

Looking back, I sometimes wish I hadn’t tested him so much.

But maybe those tests weren’t for him.

Maybe they were for me—to show me what healing looked like, one passed test at a time.

And the final twist?

A few months ago, I bumped into one of my exes—the one who cheated. He looked surprised to see me, asked if I was still “that girl who let her boyfriends talk to other girls.”

I smiled and said, “No. I’m the woman who learned to stop expecting betrayal.”

He laughed, awkwardly. Said he never thought I’d move on.

And I realized in that moment—that was the real reward.

Not just the man I married.

But the woman I became.

If this story resonated with you, if you’ve ever tested someone out of fear, or learned to trust again after heartbreak, feel free to like and share. Maybe someone out there needs to know that healing is messy—but worth it.