We've been together for six years. Then I discovered his second Instagram account.

Six years. We have a dog, a lease with both our names on it, a shared group chat with both sets of parents. I thought I knew the shape of his day pretty completely.

I found the second account by accident — logged into a shared iPad and saw a suggestion for an account with his face as the profile picture, a username I didn't recognize, no posts, just a following list. I looked. It wasn't a burner for memes. It was an account that followed a specific list of women, mostly people from his past, a few I didn't recognize at all.

I didn't confront him right away. I sat with it for two days, which felt like torture and also like the only responsible thing to do before saying anything. When I finally brought it up, he didn't deny it existed. He said it was "just looking," that he'd never messaged anyone, that it didn't mean anything about us.

Maybe it doesn't, technically. He might be telling the truth about never crossing a line I'd call a line. But six years in, I didn't think there was a version of him that needed a secret account to look at anyway, and finding out there was one has cracked something I don't know how to fully put back.

We're talking. Actually talking, for the first time in a while about what we each need. I don't know yet where it lands.