Why Can'T I Read IMessages On My Android?

On my way home, I saved a witch from a rogue attack. She thanked me with a small vial of potion, which would let me hear other people’s thoughts. That night, at the pack banquet, I heard my mate’s thoughts. ‘Serena just bought the sexiest lingerie. I need to find some excuse to ditch Aurora tonight.’ A second voice cut in, a woman’s. ‘She has no idea every time Lucian says he’s working late, he’s with me. We’ve slept together so many times now.’ ‘Once I’m pregnant with Lucian’s child, he’ll have every reason to break the mate bond with her. And when he becomes Alpha, I’ll be the Luna.’ I almost laughed out loud. What Serena didn’t know was that Lucian was the Alpha’s illegitimate son. He’d never inherit anything. I was already running through how to make them pay when another voice broke through. It came from the man standing next to Serena, the shabby boyfriend everyone in this pack looked down on. ‘How am I supposed to tell her I’m the heir to the Alpha King?’ My eyes went wide. I kept my face blank and walked straight up to him. “Hey. Mind if I get your number?”

The first thing I do after getting off the plane is to text my wife, Ella Spencer, that I'm safe and sound. Since I'm too eager to send the text, I end up sending the text to my work group chat. Before I can delete the message, the new HR employee, Dexter Brooks, suddenly calls me on the phone. "You're fired." I question him immediately, "All I did was text the wrong group chat! How does that warrant a dismissal?" Dexter shouts at me immediately, "How dare you send such lovey-dovey messages on the company's group chat! I will not tolerate this behavior in my company!" His statement catches me off guard. "Your company?" Dexter's arrogance kicks up a few notches. "What, are you saying that this is your company? Ms. Spencer is my wife! Her company is naturally mine!" After a moment's silence, I send another text to the work group chat. "Ella Spencer, you must be feeling quite smug now, huh? Not only did you claim that the company is yours, but you also switched your own husband out for someone else."

On our sixth wedding anniversary, my cheeks burn as I dodge my husband, Ethan Grant, leaning in for a hungry kiss. I push him toward the nightstand for a rubber. What he doesn't know is that I've tucked a surprise in there, a positive pregnancy test. I can already see it, the way his whole face will light up the second he finds it. But the moment his hand goes for the drawer, his phone goes off. His best friend, Henry Miller, comes on the line in Danish. "Mr. Grant, how was last night? That new love couch our company rolled out is treating you okay?" Ethan lets out a low laugh and answers in Danish, "The massage feature's great. Saves me from having to rub Sandy's back myself." He still has me pulled tight against him, but his eyes look straight through me, like he's seeing someone else. "This stays between us. If my wife ever finds out I slept with her sister, I'm done." It feels like someone just put a knife through my chest. What they don't know is that I minored in Danish in college, so I catch every single word. I force myself to stay calm, but the arms I have looped around Ethan's neck won't stop shaking. At that moment, I stop hesitating and decide I'll take the offer from that international research project. Three days from now, I'll be gone from Ethan's world for good.

On the seventh year after the breakup, I receive a package from Clarence Fraser. All 44 pounds of said package consist of the stacks of chat history I have with him in the past. Soon, Clarence's text appears on my phone screen. "Wanna meet up? I'd like to tell you something." I pause momentarily before responding with a "1". That number signifies rejection. Then, I turn my phone off. After wiping my sweat off with a towel, I pick up another crate of fruits and continue promoting them to the customers loudly, as though nothing has happened. It's been so many years, and I don't know why Clarence decides to text me all of a sudden. Similarly, he doesn't know that I've already become someone else's wife a long time ago.

He almost never texts me first, and in person he barely says a word. In three years together, he's never remembered a single anniversary, and he's never once suggested we celebrate a holiday. But the second I message him first, he lights up, all "baby" this and "baby" that, fussing over me, coaxing me to sleep. Sometimes I'd get this strange feeling that there were two different Noahs. His explanation was that he was just bad with words face-to-face, and that texting or voice notes felt like less pressure. I kept telling myself that being together meant meeting each other halfway. He was quiet and reserved, so I'd be the one to reach out. He forgot anniversaries, so I booked the restaurant and reminded him to keep the night free. He had no time to schedule our engagement shoot, so I handled the whole thing with the studio myself. He was too busy with work to help us move, so I packed everything alone, booked the movers, and got it all done. When I was so worn out I was about to break, I'd send him a voice note, and he'd say, "I'm so sorry, baby. The lab was insane today. I couldn't be there for you, and it kills me to watch you run yourself into the ground." Hearing how guilty he sounded, all my hurt just melted away. And that's how I carried three years of this relationship on my own, running on the flawless tenderness he only ever gave me online. Until today, when I found a program on his laptop called Boyfriend Assistant. It analyzed every message I sent and generated the perfect reply, the perfect response, every single time. Cold snap? It sent: Bundle up, baby. Time of the month? It pinged an API and auto-ordered hot chocolate to my door. All those late nights he spent "working," the gentle voice notes that lulled me to sleep, every one of them was synthesized in Noah's voice. For three years, the person who'd been there for me, day and night, was never Noah at all. For three years, I'd been performing a one-woman show.

Since it's already the end of the year, I'm slacking off at my job. That's when I come across a forum post on the Internet. "My husband has gone on a business trip on his own. This is the photo he sent me when he updated me on his situation. Everyone, can you please take a look at the photo and tell me if there are any problems with it?" The Internet users are quick to go into their Sherlock Holmes mode. Still, they aren't able to spot any problems with the photo. But a comment is quick to catch my attention. "Am I the only one who thinks that this post is a clickbait? Could it be that a disloyal jerk who's cheating on his wife wants to proclaim his devotion toward her but is scared that he might get caught? Maybe that's why this photo is uploaded here instead so that everyone can help him find out what's wrong with this photo!" As soon as the comment is posted, the original poster deletes the post instantly. This makes me frown. At the same time, my husband, Gavin Prescott, sends me a photo on WhatsApp. "Honey, here's my daily update! Your darling husband is still devoted to you as always!" As I stare at the photo, which is exactly the same one that was posted on the Internet, I feel my heart sinking. This is definitely not a coincidence!