Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
SOPHIE
The kettle’s screaming as if it’s trying to warn me about something, and honestly, it might be right.
I flick it off with more force than necessary and shove a fruit teabag into my favourite mug, the bright yellow one with “Professional Overthinker” in bold across the front. Fitting. On brand. Painfully accurate.
I slide onto the sofa, tucking my legs under me, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Mum’s name for a full thirty seconds before I finally hit call.
She picks up on the second ring.
“Well, this is a surprise. Thought you’d run off to join the hockey circus full-time.”
“Very funny,” I say, but I’m already smiling.
“You always call when you’re about to make a rash decision. Should I be worried?”
I sigh. “Probably.”
She makes a humming sound that’s far too smug. “Alright then. Spill.”
I swirl the tea bag in my mug, watching it bleed colour. “Murphy wants me to move in with him.”
A pause.
“Well, bloody hell.”
“Yeah.”
“Didn’t waste time, did he?”
“Not exactly.”
“And you’re not jumping for joy because…?”
I take a breath. “Because I’m still trying to figure out if it makes sense for me.”
“Sweetheart, sense doesn’t always come into it when it’s love.”
“Oh God, please don’t say things like that. I’ll combust.”
“Fine, I’ll keep the romance to a minimum. But you do love him?”
“Yeah. I do.” I rest my chin on my palm, eyes drifting to the window. “It’s just everything’s moving so fast. And now he’s asking me to give up my place, my independence, and move into his. As though it’s the obvious next step.”
“And it’s not?”
“It is. Kind of. But also no, because I like my space. I like knowing where my socks are. I like having control of the thermostat. And Murphy’s flat is chaos.”
Mum laughs. “Socks and thermostats. The true pillars of a stable relationship.”
“Don’t mock me. I’m trying to be logical.”
“Sophie, you can be in love and still want to keep a piece of your life to yourself. That’s not selfish. That’s human.”
“Exactly,” I say, grateful she gets it. “And then there’s this weird thing where I asked him, half joking, why he couldn’t move in with me. And he just ducked it. As though I’d suggested burning his entire music collection or murdering his dog.”
“He doesn’t have a dog.”
“He would have reacted better if I’d murdered an imaginary one. That’s how it felt.”
“Hmmm.”
That’s Mum-code for ‘I’m thinking and you’re not going to like what I’m about to say.’
“You have a theory, don’t you?”
“I always have a theory. Murphy sounds like a man who’s used to his space too. Maybe it’s more than just liking the flat. Maybe it’s part of how he defines himself. His independence. His pride.”
I frown. “So what, I just move in and learn to live with crusty mugs in the sink and the smell of gym gear?”
“Darling, no one’s saying you have to compromise everything. Living together should be building something new, not squeezing your life into someone else’s.”
I nod slowly. “I think I need to say that to him.”
“Yes. And maybe figure out what you’re actually afraid of. Is it his messy flat? Or the fact that moving in means this is it.”
I go quiet. That’s the bit I haven’t said out loud.
Mum doesn’t press. She just lets the silence hang.
Finally, I say, “I’m not afraid of him. I just don’t want to lose myself.”
“And you won’t,” she says softly. “Not with him. Not with that ridiculous voice note he sent me last month thanking me for giving birth to ‘a tiny goddess with better taste than sense.’”
I snort. “He did not.”
“He absolutely did. And I saved it. Might play it at your wedding.”
I groan. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best, and you know it.”
We chat a bit longer about work, her book club; she’s trying to make them read hockey romance next, and I told her she’s banned from that genre entirely, and then we move on to what she’s planting in the garden next week.
When we hang up, I feel a little lighter. No decision has been made but I feel less tangled.
I love him.
But love doesn’t mean handing over the keys to my whole life.
It means finding a way to share it without disappearing inside his.
I sit on the sofa for a full five minutes after hanging up with Mum, phone still warm in my hand, her voice echoing in my head.
“You’re scared. Doesn’t mean you don’t love him.”
The thing is she’s right. I am scared. Not of Murphy, but of what he makes me feel. Of the way he’s nudged his way into every quiet space in my life, until the idea of him not being there feels wrong. Empty.
I pick up my phone again before I can second-guess myself.
He answers immediately. “Hey.”
That voice. Warm, familiar, a little breathless as if he might’ve sprinted for the phone. It hits me square in the chest.
“Hey,” I say, curling my legs tighter beneath me. “Got a sec?”
“For you? Always.”
I breathe out slowly. “I talked to my mum.”
A beat. “Yeah?”
“She made a lot of sense. Annoyingly.” I try for lightness, but it comes out too fragile.
There’s a pause on the other end. “Tell me what’s going on in that brilliant head of yours.”
So I do.
“I’m scared,” I say, voice wobbling despite myself. “Not of you. But of losing who I am if I move in with you. Of giving up parts of myself without realising it until I don’t recognise the girl in the mirror anymore.”
He doesn’t answer right away. I wait, heart thudding, for a joke or a brush-off. But when he speaks, his voice is low and raw.
“Soph, I would never want you to lose yourself for me.”
“I know. Logically, I know. But emotionally? I’ve spent so long making my life mine.
My flat, my routine, my mismatched mugs, my mess.
And you, Murph, you come in like a storm.
Loud and fast and full-on. And I love that.
I love you. But I don’t know how to keep the parts of me that are quiet and slow and mine when I’m with you all the time. ”
“I’m not asking you to change,” he says, quiet but firm. “I’m not trying to move in and take over your life. I just want to build something that’s ours. Not yours. Not mine. Ours. Somewhere we can both be ourselves.”
I let the words sit. They sound nice. Safe. True. But still, something nags.
“I asked you why you couldn’t move in with me,” I say. “And you dodged it. Like I’d asked you to give up a limb.”
He sighs. “Yeah. I didn’t handle that well.”
“Why did it freak you out?”
He goes quiet for a long beat.
“Because your place feels like your sanctuary. It’s got rules and vibes and candles that cost more than my trainers.
And mine’s... well, it’s rough around the edges, but it’s the first place that felt like home since I left my mum’s.
It’s messy, yeah, but it’s mine. And the thought of not coming back to it kind of rattled me. ”
I soften. “So you get it.”
“Course I do.” His voice is rougher now. “I get not wanting to give up space that feels safe. I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like a prat.”
“You didn’t. Not now.”
Silence stretches for a second, then he asks, “Do you want me to come over?”
I do. More than I want to admit. But I shake my head.
“Not yet. I think I need to sit with this. But thank you for listening. For not bulldozing me with what you want.”
“You never have to thank me for that,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Sophie, I love you. That means making space for your fears too.”
I press a hand to my chest. “I love you, too.”
Then, quieter I say, “Let’s find somewhere new. Together. Not your place. Not mine. Something else. Something that starts from scratch.”
He exhales, and it sounds like relief. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Good.” I smile into the phone. “And if you leave your socks on the floor in the new place, I will throw them out the window.”
“Babe, that’s fair.”
We hang up with soft goodnights and a sense of something clicking into place.
Not a final answer. But a first step.
And maybe, that’s all love really is; choosing each other, one small, honest step at a time.