My Boyfriend’s Sister Called Me by a Name Only He Knew — “Bunny.” What I Discovered on My Phone Still Gives Me Chills.

My boyfriend’s sister knew the nickname I only used in private — “Bunny.” Then she knew about my period. That’s when I uncovered the spyware she’d hidden on my phone, spying through my camera. So I planted a false secret for her to find, and when she appeared at my doorstep, she didn’t know she was stepping right into my trap.

Noah and I were on the verge of something tender, that nervous first step into intimacy, when a sudden, sharp knock echoed through his apartment. The sound sliced through the quiet, jolting me back to reality. I turned my head toward the hallway — and there she was. Danielle. His sister.

“Oh, sorry if I interrupted,” she said, her voice dripping with fake innocence as her eyes roamed the scene — the dimmed lights, the half-melted vanilla candle, the air charged with something private. “It’s so cozy in here,” she added with a sly grin. “Perfect for a game of Monopoly. Unless you two were… busy, Bunny.”

Every muscle in me froze.

“Bunny.” That name wasn’t for anyone else. It belonged to Noah and me alone, whispered in quiet moments. Never shared. Never overheard.

Before we could react, she brushed past us, pulled out the game box, and began spreading pieces across the coffee table like nothing was out of place. I tried to keep my composure; Noah had always told me Danielle was “just having a hard time.” But my mind wouldn’t stop racing. How could she know that word?

That was when it all began.

A few days later, Noah was in the shower when Danielle struck up another of her casual conversations. “You ever seen Love Is Blind?” she asked. “The episode where the mom finds out about the affair? God, that one hit me.”

My stomach twisted. I had just watched that very episode the night before — on my laptop, alone, with headphones, while Noah was at work.

The next day, I got my period. I hadn’t told anyone. Not Noah. Not even my mom. Yet that evening, a text from Danielle appeared: Had the strangest dream about you bleeding last night. Hope you’re okay.

My blood ran cold. The timing was too exact.

When I tried to tell Noah, keeping my tone light, he tensed instantly. “She’s always struggled to make friends,” he said, jaw tight. “You’re my first serious girlfriend — this is hard for her.”

So I tried. God, I really did. I invited her to brunch, to movie nights, to anything that might help her feel included. But a pattern started to emerge — one I couldn’t ignore.

Every time we planned a romantic dinner, Danielle would text thirty minutes before with some medical emergency: terrible stomach cramps, can’t move. Noah would rush to her side, medicine in hand.

He always had a reason. “She used to be my plus-one for everything,” he’d explain, as though that excused her knowing every detail of our lives.

Then came the post that made me sick. After I shared an anniversary selfie of Noah and me, Danielle uploaded a carousel of childhood photos — her and Noah in the bathtub as toddlers, dancing at a middle school formal. Her caption read: No one will ever know you like your Day One.

I couldn’t breathe.

That was when I decided we needed space. A vacation — Costa Rica. We saved for six months, booked flights, paid for hotels. But two days before we were supposed to leave, my phone lit up. Noah’s name. His voice trembled when he spoke. “She says she can’t live without me for a whole week. She’s having a panic attack, April. A real one.”

We canceled the trip. Lost most of the money. That night, Danielle posted a photo of them together — me carefully cropped out. Caption: Nothing better than sibling time.

When I showed Noah, he looked torn apart. “I love you,” he said, “but she’s fragile. I’m scared of what she might do.”

I swallowed my frustration and tried to hold it together — until the day everything cracked open. I was sitting on the toilet, playing Candy Crush to pass the time. I hadn’t touched it in months, and I remembered my last level: 367.

When the game loaded, it read: 950.

A chill crawled through me. I opened my phone settings, searching for something — anything — that could explain it. Hidden deep in the accessibility list was an app I didn’t recognize: Family Safety Monitor.

When I Googled it, my heart stopped. It was black-market spyware — capable of mirroring texts, photos, searches, even deleted content. It could activate the camera.

And it had been installed four months ago — right after Danielle had “helped fix my phone.”

For an hour, I sat there numb. The obvious answer was to go to the police, but I had no proof she’d done it. And I knew how it would look: family drama. She’d cry, and I’d be the paranoid girlfriend.

So I came up with a different plan. If she was watching, I’d make sure she saw what I wanted her to see.

I texted my mom one word: Pineapple. Our agreed-upon code for “Everything I say next might be fake.” Then I scheduled a fake appointment at a women’s clinic and texted: Noah doesn’t know yet, but I’m pregnant. I’m going to terminate it.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock.

Danielle stood at the door, eyes sharp, voice trembling with performative calm. “Isn’t there something Noah should know?”

I met her gaze, expression blank. “Noah and I are great. There’s nothing we need to discuss.”

I shut the door quietly — not slammed, but final. Then I took screenshots: the fake text, the time — 8:47 p.m. Proof she’d seen it in real time. I saved them to a hidden folder named EVIDENCE.

When Noah came home, he looked worried. “Danielle said she needed to talk to you,” he said.

“She stopped by,” I replied lightly. “Nothing important.”

I couldn’t tell him yet. He’d find a way to defend her again. I needed more.

So the next morning, I turned detective. I documented everything: screenshots of the spyware’s permissions, the install date, everything linking back to when she’d “fixed” my phone. I asked a tech friend, Vikram, to confirm what I suspected. His face darkened. “April, this mirrors everything. Don’t delete it — it’s evidence.”

That word — evidence — burned into me.

That night, I bought a cheap prepaid phone with cash, programmed only two numbers: Mom and Vikram. Now she could spy all she wanted on the old one.

Then I baited her again. I created a fake calendar entry: Therapy Intake Appointment — made-up address, note reading “Discussing communication issues with Noah.”

Twenty-three minutes later, Danielle posted a story: a quote that said, Some people hide their problems instead of facing them.

Screenshot. Timestamp. Added to the folder.

I met with a legal aid advocate named Lena. Calm, sharp, reassuring. “People like this always have excuses,” she said. “You need to make the pattern undeniable.”

So I set another trap. I wrote a fake confession in my Notes app, pretending it was a private journal — about lying to Noah, fearing motherhood. That evening, Noah’s phone buzzed. “Danielle says she’s worried about you,” he murmured. “She said I should check what you really want for the future.”

The exact phrasing from my fake note.

I just stared. “I don’t know what she’s talking about,” I said softly.

When I tried again to make him see it, he just shook his head. “She probably sensed something was off. You know, sibling intuition.”

I wanted to scream. Instead, I wrote it all down — his reaction, word for word — under Pattern #3.

For the final test, I faked a dinner reservation in Photoshop — perfect, down to the metadata. Added it to my calendar for Friday at 7:00 p.m.

At 6:28, Noah’s phone buzzed. Danielle. “Severe stomach cramps,” she claimed. “Need medicine.”

I actually laughed — bitter, incredulous. “What’s funny?” Noah asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “You should go.”

As he grabbed his keys, I took screenshots — her text, my fake reservation. Pattern #4: Medical Emergency timed to Dinner Plans.

Then I asked our building manager for hallway footage from the night of the fake pregnancy text. He hesitated, but I said it was for a harassment report.

The video showed her — pacing outside our door, checking her phone, knocking exactly fifteen minutes after my message.

Proof.

I took it all to the police. Officer Kenzie Jones listened closely, flipping through my evidence folder. “This is one of the most organized reports I’ve seen,” she said, “but we’ll need a formal incident file before a restraining order.”

That night, I told Noah we needed therapy.

He stiffened. “Danielle’s going through a hard time—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “But I need you to choose: counseling, or I take a break from us.”

He stared at me — really saw me — and finally nodded. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

It wasn’t a yes. But it was something.

My final trap was for both of them. I created one last decoy on my old phone: a draft email titled EVIDENCE – DANIELLE (POLICE). Then I waited.

The next morning, security called from my office lobby. “There’s a Danielle here,” the guard said. “She says it’s a family emergency.”

When I went down, she was crying, shaking. “You’re trying to turn Noah against me!” she yelled.

“I’m not speaking privately,” I told her, voice steady. “If you have something to say, do it here — with witnesses.”

People stared. The guard asked her to leave. She glared at me, pure venom in her eyes.

I drove straight to the police station. Officer Jones added the incident to my file. “That’s enough,” she said. “We’ll issue a formal cease and desist.”

At our first counseling session, I brought everything — screenshots, timestamps, Vikram’s report, the video stills. I printed them all into a forty-page binder and slid it across the table.

“I found spyware on my phone,” I said quietly. “She’s been watching me.”

Noah looked skeptical — until I played the video of Danielle pacing outside our door. “Fifteen minutes,” I whispered.

He had no words.

The therapist, Joyce, explained what she called “enmeshment.” That fine line between support and enabling. Then, in the middle of the session, Noah’s phone started buzzing. Danielle. Over and over.

“Noah,” Joyce said gently, “can you silence that and stay present?”

He hesitated — then pressed the button. The phone went still. It buzzed again. He didn’t touch it.

After the session, we sat in our cars. I typed a fake note into my old phone: Thinking about getting a dog next spring.

“Wait twenty minutes,” I told him.

At nineteen, his phone lit up. He turned it toward me. Danielle’s Instagram story: a puppy photo, captioned Some people aren’t ready for that kind of commitment.

He just stared at the screen, trembling.

I walked over to his car. “Thirty days,” I said softly. “No contact with Danielle. Or I move out.”

He looked at me, at the phone, then nodded, tears in his eyes. “Okay.”

That night, Danielle texted him: I can’t live without you. I’ll hurt myself. You’ve abandoned me for her.

For a moment, I saw the old panic in his face — that instinct to rescue. But this time, he forwarded the text to Officer Jones and sent her the crisis hotline number. Then he set the phone face-down and broke down crying beside me.

The pattern was broken.

Police performed a welfare check. Danielle was angry but safe.

After that, Noah and I rebuilt. New passwords. Two-factor authentication. Shared accounts. A written agreement: any message from Danielle would be shown to both of us, immediately.

He started therapy. He honored the no-contact rule. Danielle’s Instagram spiraled into chaos — angry quotes, forced smiles, then finally went private. My lawyer sent the cease and desist, demanding she delete all stolen data. There was silence.

Six weeks later, I finally slept through the night. My new phone was locked tight. The old one sat sealed in Vikram’s fireproof safe. Noah went to therapy every Thursday.

We were still healing — but we were healing together.

We even started talking about that Costa Rica trip again. And this time, when I pictured it, I could actually see it — the beach, the ocean, and the two of us standing there.

Just the two of us.