When my boyfriend, Ethan, texted me, “Check Spotify. I made something for you,” I felt a surge of warmth in my chest. It wasn’t just the playlist—it was the thought that he’d taken the time to piece together music for me, weaving a soundtrack of our relationship.
But then, as I pressed play and let the songs unfold, something began to gnaw at me. The titles weren’t random. They weren’t even subtle. One by one, they spelled out another woman’s name.
Ethan and I had been together for almost three years. We’d met at a friend’s rooftop party, the kind with fairy lights, plastic cups, and a broken speaker someone kept kicking to make it work. He was leaning against the railing, beer in hand, when we started talking about music.
That was always our thing—music. Ethan played guitar in a small local band, and I grew up falling asleep to my dad’s vinyl collection. From our first date at a dive bar with an open mic, to road trips where we sang until our voices cracked, songs became our language.
So when Ethan made me playlists, I cherished them like love letters.
Which is why, when this particular playlist arrived on a quiet Thursday night, I curled up on the couch with my headphones, ready to sink into whatever he’d put together for me.
The first song was “Hold Me Tight.” Sweet. The second was “Every Hour.” Romantic. The third was “Rose.” Oddly specific, but fine.
By the time the fifth track came on, my stomach tightened. The titles weren’t just sweet phrases—they were spelling out HER NAME.
H-E-R-N-A-M-E.
At first, I thought maybe it was a coincidence. That I was being paranoid. But I replayed it, writing down the first letters like some lovesick detective.
H.E.R.N.A.M.E.
My fingers trembled as I scrolled down the list. Each block of seven songs repeated the pattern. Again and again.
“Ethan,” I whispered into the empty room, “what the hell is this?”
I grabbed my phone and typed: “The playlist… what does it mean?” Then I deleted it. Re-typed. Deleted again.
I wanted him to explain before I jumped to conclusions, but deep down, I already knew.
The next day, I didn’t wait for him to bring it up. I showed up at his apartment unannounced, the playlist still open on my phone.
He answered the door with that disarming grin that used to melt me. “Hey, babe. Didn’t know you were coming over.”
“Yeah,” I said flatly, walking past him into the living room. “I figured we should talk.”
He frowned, sensing my tone. “Okay… about what?”
I shoved the phone toward him. “This.”
He glanced at the screen, then back at me, playing dumb. “The playlist? You didn’t like it?”
“Don’t do that, Ethan.” My voice cracked, but I held firm. “You spelled out her name. Who is she?”
For a second, his face was unreadable. Then he sighed, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “It’s not what you think.”
“Really? Because what I think is that you made me a playlist using songs to spell out another woman’s name. Do you know how sick that is?”
“She’s just a friend,” he said quickly. “I was… experimenting with something. It’s stupid, I shouldn’t have sent it.”
“Experimenting?” I barked out a bitter laugh. “With what—my sanity?”
He reached for me, but I pulled back. His eyes darted away, landing on the guitar propped in the corner, the one he always played when he couldn’t find the right words.
Finally, he whispered, “Her name is Marissa.”
The air drained from my lungs. “Marissa,” I repeated. “So she’s real.”
“She’s just someone from the studio,” he said quickly. “She… she gets me in ways I can’t explain. But nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened?” I snapped. “Ethan, you wrote her into a damn playlist. That’s not nothing—that’s obsession.”
He ran both hands over his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought maybe if I got it out through music, it would fade.”
My voice shook, but I forced the words out. “So what am I, then? A placeholder until you finish writing love songs about her?”
He flinched, but didn’t deny it.
And that silence—that awful, heavy silence—told me everything I needed to know.
I left his apartment with the playlist still glowing on my phone screen, the letters burning into my memory. H-E-R-N-A-M-E.
It wasn’t just about the songs. It was about the betrayal tucked inside them, the secret confessions disguised as melodies he thought I wouldn’t notice.
In the weeks after, I deleted the playlist, deleted his number, and packed up every photograph of us. But I couldn’t delete the way it made me feel—like I had been tricked into listening to a love letter meant for someone else.
And yet, as painful as it was, I realized something: love shouldn’t feel like a puzzle you’re constantly trying to solve. It shouldn’t feel like you’re searching for hidden meanings in someone’s words, or wondering if the song they’re singing is meant for you—or another woman entirely.
I deserved better than coded playlists and half-truths. I deserved someone who wanted to write only my name into their story.
So I let Ethan go.
Final Thought
Sometimes betrayal doesn’t come as lipstick on a collar or late-night phone calls. Sometimes, it comes disguised as a playlist—beautiful, thoughtful, and devastating.
And once you finally hear the truth behind the music, you can’t unhear it.
