There’s a scent of phone heat and frustrated skin, a scent that mixes lust with quiet despair. Eddie holds his phone close like it’s the only thing left alive, and the light on the screen paints his face with guilt.

Rachel smiles from a chat window, her expression trembling between want and shame, and his gut twists because he knows she’s not alone. Every message glitters like a trap. It’s a chat log that turns into a diary of betrayal.

Her messages come faster, shorter, hotter, and he feels the phantom of her body pressing against his memory. Rachel’s photos grow darker, wetter, more deliberate, and he keeps watching because pain is the only thing that still feels real.

Watching them touch themselves feels too intimate, too honest, each orgasm a small act of surrender. You’ll tell yourself it’s fiction, but your body will disagree. It doesn’t care if you like what you see.

Painted with AI-crafted bodies that look too perfect to touch, each frame looks like a photo you shouldn’t have saved. Her surrender grows with every message you read, while he loses himself in the act of watching.

This is romance turned inside out, a corruption arc that mirrors your own weakness. Every vibration feels like a heartbeat you can’t ignore. At the final message, you’ll feel hollow and satisfied.

Open it if you want to watch love rot from the inside.