He puts his phone face down on the table as if the screen itself holds a confession. She guards her notifications like secrets. He laughs half a second too late, eyes scanning for alibis. She smiles too wide when questioned, her voice sweet but trembling. He keeps his phone glued to him, locked tighter than his stories. She suddenly becomes polite, distant, careful with touch. He adjusts his sleeves, taps his fingers, pretends calm. She angles her body away, protecting her guilt behind posture. He over explains, adding details no one asked for. She talks louder when lying, softer when close to truth. He mirrors emotions without meaning them. She scrolls with purpose, replies too quickly or too late. He avoids eye contact, using jokes as smoke screens. She fidgets with her hair, crosses her legs and uncrosses them when nervous. Both breathe rehearsed air. Every blink, every sigh, every sideways glance reveals the same secret, I am hiding something.