Chapter 58
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
MURPHY
Ihaven’t slept.
Not properly. Not even badly. I just lay there in the dark like a corpse, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the sun to rise, hoping maybe then everything will make more sense. It doesn’t.
My phone’s still on the floor where I dropped it last night. But not before I fired off five messages and called her twice. All unread. All ignored.
I don’t know how to fix this.
I keep going over it, every second, every expression on her face as though it’s some kind of test I failed.
Sophie, standing in doorway, hands clenched at her sides, voice shaking when she told me to leave.
And me, stupid, stunned, speechless, watching the whole thing fall apart like it wasn’t even real.
I should’ve fought harder.
I should’ve said something. Anything. Instead, I just stood there, holding a bin bag like the world’s most useless prick.
She looked hollow. As though someone had gutted her from the inside and left her with nothing but the shell. And I did that. I made her feel like that.
God.
I scrub both hands over my face, and try to catch my breath, but it’s not working. Everything’s tight. Like my skin doesn’t fit right anymore. It’s as though I’m too much and not enough all at once.
It was supposed to be good. It was supposed to be more than good.
The last night I stayed over, when we laughed, when she touched me like I was something careful and precious, I thought that was it. The beginning. Of whatever this was becoming.
But now it’s just nothing.
And she won’t even read my texts.
The silence from her is louder than the shouting. Louder than the way she threw a bin bag of my socks at my chest as if they’d personally offended her. Louder than the look on her face when I tried to explain and the only thing she said was, “Don’t.”
I deserve it. Every bit of it. Doesn’t mean it hurts any less.
I scroll through the photos again, because I’m a masochist apparently.
The ones with Tabloid Girl draped over me like she’s entitled to something, and me, frozen and stupid and not pushing her away fast enough.
That half-second captured on camera now stretched into permanent evidence of how easy it is to ruin something good.
I try to breathe through the panic lodged somewhere beneath my ribs.
I keep picturing her face. The tears she tried to swallow.
The way her voice cracked when she told me to leave.
I would’ve preferred shouting. A slap. Anything but that quiet, hollow heartbreak in her eyes.
I get up. Move around the flat like a ghost. Cold coffee still in the pot. Last night’s hoodie on the back of the chair. Her toothbrush, still in my bathroom. I don’t know if that means anything anymore.
I try texting again anyway.
Murphy: I swear to you nothing happened.
Murphy: It’s not what it looked like.
Murphy: Please just talk to me.
Murphy: I can’t fix this if you don’t let me.
Still nothing.
I feel like I’m losing my mind as I slump to sit on the floor like some kind of tragic cliché. Back against the sofa, hands fisted in my hair, replaying the same stupid scene as though I can change the ending if I think hard enough.
This can’t be it. It can’t.
She’s the only thing in my life that’s ever made sense. Even when everything else was noise, when I was screwing around, keeping things casual, pretending I didn’t care, there was always this part of me that was waiting for her. For us.
And now she’s gone.
Worse than gone. She’s still here, technically. But she won’t see me, won’t speak to me, won’t even let me explain.
I deserve it. I know that.
But fuck, it hurts.
I don’t even realise I’m crying until the tears hit my hands. Stupid, silent ones, slipping down my cheeks like some goddamn slow leak I can’t patch up.
What am I supposed to do now?
Because this isn’t just about the photos. It’s about the fact that she trusted me and I let her down. That she let herself believe in us, in me, and now she’s left with egg on her face and her heart in bits.
And I can’t stand that.
I’d take it all back if I could. I’d burn the whole night down. I’d turn back time, walk out of the hotel before Tabloid Girl even showed up, kiss Sophie on her doorstep and never look away.
But I can’t.
All I can do is hope that when she’s ready, when the anger and the heartbreak fade, she’ll let me in again. Just for a minute. Just long enough to show her that I’m still here. Still hers, if she wants me.
That I’ve never wanted anyone else.
Not even for a second.
And I never will.
I pull on yesterday’s hoodie and grab my keys off the counter. I don’t have a plan, exactly. On the way, I go over what I’ll say. Over and over again like if I rehearse it enough, I won’t fuck it up. But it all sounds thin. Useless. Nothing I say will unsee what she saw.
Still. I’ve got to try. Because if I don’t, if I let her walk away without a fight, then I’m every bit as spineless as I felt in that photo.
Her street is quiet when I get there. I know the buzzer won’t get me in, she’s smart enough not to answer it. So, I pace outside, chewing the inside of my cheek, scanning every window like I’ll magically spot her through a curtain crack.
Eventually, I get buzzed in by someone else on their way out. I don’t think about whether she’ll be angry I’ve come. I’m already here, and my heart’s thudding in my throat.
I knock. Once, twice. Wait.
Nothing.
I knock again, louder. “Sophie? It’s me.”
Still nothing. My chest’s getting tighter. I don’t know if I’m sweating from nerves or just the sheer weight of everything I’ve wrecked.
Finally, the lock shifts. The door opens three inches, held firm by the chain. And there she is.
Still beautiful. Still Sophie. Just colder.
She doesn’t say anything. But she looks at me like I’m something she found stuck to her shoe.
I lift my hands. “Please. Just let me talk.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she says.
“It’s not what it looked like.”
Her laugh is sharp. “Oh, come on. At least respect me enough not to insult my intelligence.”
I step forward. She doesn’t flinch but she doesn’t unchain the door either.
“I didn’t touch her, Soph. I didn’t want her. She came onto me, and I froze like an idiot. I should’ve pushed her away, I know that, but,”
She cuts me off. “But you didn’t. And the press didn’t care about your intentions. They cared about the picture. The implication. And now everyone knows what kind of man you are.”
I flinch. Because she’s not wrong.
She shakes her head like she can’t believe I’m still standing there. “Do you have any idea what that felt like? Seeing those photos and realising I was the last to know I was being humiliated?”
“You weren’t…”
“Don’t.” Her voice cracks, and that’s what shatters me. Not the words. Not the door still chained between us. That.
“I love you,” I say, because it’s the only thing left. “I love you so much it’s pathetic, and I messed up, and I’m sorry. I’ll say it a thousand times if that’s what you need.”
She leans her head against the edge of the door. “I needed you not to let someone else touch you. I needed you to think about me before all of this happened, not after the damage was already done.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Because she’s right again.
“Soph, please,” I whisper.
“I can’t do this right now,” she says, voice low and brittle. “Maybe not ever. You made your choice the second you didn’t stop her. That wasn’t just about a photo, Murphy. That was about respect. About trust.”
She doesn’t slam the door. That would’ve been easier.
She just closes it. Soft. Final.
The lock clicks back into place.