I caught my ex-boyfriend cheating.
I was lying on the couch with my face turned to the wall and accidentally noticed a small hole in the wallpaper.
I dug deeper with my nail and got a mouthful of drywall dust and something I didn’t expect—a clear view into his “man cave,” which was supposed to be a private soundproof gaming room.

We lived in a small two-bedroom rental in Doraville, just outside Atlanta. The place was old, and the layout was weird—like someone tried to remodel it halfway and gave up. One wall of the living room shared space with this tiny converted utility room that my ex, Arman, insisted on using for his gaming “studio.” I never went in there. He made it seem sacred. Said I’d “mess up his stream setup.”

At first, I respected it. We were still in the honeymoon phase—he cooked dinner sometimes, played with my dog, sent sweet midday texts. But over the months, things shifted. He started locking his door even when he was inside. I’d knock and get a sharp “Busy!” from behind it. He’d stay up late, disappear during the day, get weirdly protective of his phone. My gut itched, but I kept brushing it off. Love makes you stupid.

That afternoon, I was curled up on the couch with a migraine. He was in his “studio,” and I was trying to nap. But the wall buzzed faintly with voices—soft, not loud enough to hear words. I turned toward the wall and noticed the wallpaper wasn’t stuck properly. There was a little air bubble right above the baseboard.

I picked at it, and my nail tore through the layer. Underneath was crumbling drywall, and behind that—God knows why—an old peephole-sized opening. Like someone drilled through, maybe years ago. Probably covered by furniture once. I pushed my eye up to it, curious.

I wish I hadn’t.

There he was, sitting with his headset off, talking to a woman I didn’t recognize. She was perched on his lap, her long acrylics tracing patterns on his cheek. And they weren’t whispering sweet nothings. They were mocking me.

“She still thinks I’m editing Twitch clips,” he said, laughing.
“Poor thing,” the woman replied, fake-pouting. “Should we tell her she’s the third wheel?”

My heart collapsed into my stomach. But I didn’t cry. Not right away. I watched for ten more minutes. Just sat there like a ghost in the wall, listening.

Turns out it wasn’t just a one-time thing. This had been going on for weeks. Maybe longer. They joked about the dinners I cooked. Called my taste in music “funeral vibes.” Even made fun of the way I say “pecan.”

I finally peeled myself off the couch and tiptoed outside with my phone. I needed to think. Needed air. That was the first night I ever thought about revenge.

But not the dramatic kind. No screaming, no throwing plates. I wanted quiet justice.

The next morning, I pretended everything was fine. I brought him coffee, complimented his shirt, even let him kiss me on the forehead. My insides were rotting, but I wore a smile like armor. He left around noon, said he had an “urgent stream collab.” I waited ten minutes, then unlocked his studio. (Spoiler: he wasn’t smart enough to change the password from my birthday.)

Inside, it was a mess of cables, monitors, and ring lights. But the real treasure was his hard drive, which he left plugged in. And let me tell you—this man was sloppy. Screenshots, recordings, DMs. He’d saved everything. Like he thought he was invincible.

I uploaded every file to a hidden cloud folder. Then I found something I hadn’t expected—a spreadsheet titled “Vouchers.” It was a list of usernames, PayPal transfers, and ratings. My heart stopped.

He was selling fake Twitch promotions. Charging small streamers to be “featured” on his page, then ghosting them. Hundreds of dollars from people just trying to get noticed.

And guess what? The girl from the video was in on it. She posed as a “talent scout,” luring them in.

That was the real betrayal—not just cheating on me, but making money off vulnerable people. I knew then I couldn’t just leave quietly.

So I made a plan.

First, I compiled the evidence into a detailed Google Doc. I didn’t just want to expose him—I wanted receipts. Then I created an anonymous Twitter account and emailed his victims. A few responded immediately. They’d been blocked, threatened, told to “get over it.”

We worked together. Coordinated the post. By the following Friday, it went viral. #ExposeArman started trending locally. His Twitch got reported so many times, it was shut down in under 48 hours.

He came home that night in a panic. Tossed his backpack, paced the living room, ranting about “jealous haters.” I sat on the couch, sipping wine, pretending to scroll Instagram.

“You okay?” I asked sweetly.

He looked at me, confused. “Did you see what’s happening?”

“Oh, you mean your little scam getting uncovered?” I blinked. “Yeah, wild stuff.”

That’s when it clicked for him.

His face drained, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “You…?”

I stood, handed him a flash drive. “You have 24 hours to move out. I’ve already called the landlord.”

He tried to argue. Begged, actually. Said he could “fix things.” Swore the other girl “meant nothing.” But I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t cry. I just told him to go.

The girl ghosted him the second his Twitch died. Poetic.

But here’s the real twist.

Two weeks later, one of the streamers he scammed—this guy named Mahir—reached out. Said he saw my post and appreciated what I did. We got to talking. Just casually at first—jokes, memes, shared rants about scammy tech bros.

Turned out he lived two towns over. We met for coffee.

He was nothing like Arman. He listened. He remembered my dog’s name. He didn’t lock rooms or lie about passwords. Over time, we built something real.

A year later, we moved in together. Same neighborhood, but a better apartment. No weird walls, no hidden holes. Just honesty. And maybe a little paranoia on my part—I do check behind every new piece of wallpaper now. Old habits.

I’m not saying I’m glad it happened. But I am grateful I listened to that quiet itch in my gut. That I didn’t let someone’s lies become my normal.

Sometimes the smallest cracks let in the most light.

If you’ve ever felt that weird tug in your chest that says, “Something’s off,”—don’t ignore it.
You might just find everything you need through a tiny hole in the wall.

Please like and share if this hit close to home. You never know who needs the nudge.