How Do Couples Use The Good Night Emoji In Messages?

My husband, Matt Miller, suffers from severe insomnia. He can't stand a little bit of noise while he's asleep. After six years of marriage, I've gotten used to the quiet. I don't watch TV after 9:00 pm. I don't make calls or eat. I even walk on tiptoes. Everything feels worth it when I see him sleeping soundly. Until one day, when I go to his office to deliver some documents, I realize the door isn't tightly shut. His secretary, Faye Davis, is sitting cross-legged on the carpet while eating potato chips. A variety show is playing loudly in the background. Meanwhile, Matt is asleep on the couch. Just as Faye reaches forward to turn down the volume, he raises his hand and strokes her hair, all the while keeping his eyes closed. "It's okay. I sleep better with the noise." I stand outside the door, recalling the bad cold I had last month. Afraid that my coughing would wake him up, I had buried my head into the pillow all night. The next day, he frowned and complained, "You were breathing so loudly last night. I couldn't sleep at all. Keep it down next time." Amid the crunching sounds of potato chips and Matt's steady breathing, I slowly step back. Turns out the cure to his insomnia isn't silence, but a woman. Only that woman isn't me. I guess I won't be bothering him at night anymore.

That night, I returned from a business trip to surprise my wife. However, when I sneak home, I realize my boss is there, too. His smile deepens when he sees me; he tells me he's there to welcome me home because he knew I would return that night. My wife nods and agrees with him. For some reason, I can't help finding the looks on their faces odd.

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.

The whole city’s paparazzi knows that Cade Finley would rather sleep with a nightclub escort than with me. The question they ask daily is: When will Mrs. Finley finally give away her precious "first time"? In front of the media cameras, Cade calmly turned towards me. "We can each have our own fun. If you don't like what I'm doing, you can go look for a man too." With that, he casually shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away. That night, he was photographed with his new fling in bed, and it made the trending news once again. While everyone thought I would just sit and wait until dawn, I contacted the paparazzi and bought a trending topic spot. Then, I tore up my lace nightgown, messed up the sheets, and took a bedroom photo from a third-person perspective. I then sent an anonymous message to Cade: "Bro, your wife is amazing. Let me know when you're getting a divorce."

The annual company party featured a couples' trivia contest. The grand prize was a weekend spa getaway for two. Michael looked at me but he turned and grabbed my best friend Gina’s hand. "Gina and I have better chemistry," he said. "We have a better shot at winning." The host asked the final question, "What is your partner’s biggest fear?" Michael didn’t hesitate. "The dark. She’s been terrified of the dark since childhood." He was answering for Gina. My biggest fear was heights. He had never once gotten it right. They won. The host teased, "With chemistry like that, are you sure you two aren't a couple?" Gina laughed and leaned playfully against his shoulder. "Oh, stop. We just wanted the prize." Michael didn't pull away. After the party, he handed the voucher to me. "Let’s go together." Before I could even answer, he added, "We should bring Gina, too. Her skin is sensitive. She can test the spa waters for us first." It was always like this. Every vacation, she stayed in the room first. Every restaurant, she tried the food first. Every new place we went, she had to experience it first. And with every "test," their connection only grew deeper. I slipped the voucher back into his hand. "You two go," I said. "No need to test it for me anymore.”

On the first day of New Year's, my good buddy, Vincent Wales, sent me a video. “Leon, take a look. Does this woman look like your wife? It’s all over.” In the video, a man and a woman were making out passionately. As the car rocked violently, the woman’s face came into view. It was unmistakably my wife. My blood rushed straight to my head. My hands shook as I dialed her number. “Hello, honey… What’s the matter?” Her breathing was uneven, like she had just been doing something intense. I was about to speak when she suddenly let out a few loud cries. “A-Ah… It’s nothing. I’ll hang up now. I’m just playing cards with friends." With that, all I heard was the dial tone. Playing cards? She had clearly told me she was working overtime!