Chapter 59
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
SOPHIE
It’s been seven days, thirteen hours, and, because I’m apparently a masochist, forty-nine minutes since I gave Murphy back his socks in a bin bag and told him to piss off.
Not that I’m counting.
I’m absolutely counting.
But not because I miss him. God no. I’m thriving. I’m glowing. I’m in my “screw you” era, fuelled by iced coffee, petty rage, and spite. My hair’s clean, my skin’s clear, and I haven’t cried into a tub of ice cream even once. Not publicly, anyway.
I’m fine. Truly.
So fine that I’ve answered none of his texts. Ignored all seven voice notes. Didn’t even open the one where he said my name as if it physically hurt him to say it. I watched the little waveform move as though he was bleeding sincerity through my screen, and I swiped it away like yesterday’s news.
I am bulletproof. I am a fortress of calm in Dr Martens and a blazer that makes my ex cry.
And yet.
Here I am, sitting at my desk on a Monday, scrolling past today’s dose of “I miss you, please talk to me” like it doesn’t make my stomach lurch and twist.
The text preview reads;
Murphy: Still thinking about you still sorry.
No full stops. No emoji. Just him, raw and understated, and that somehow makes it worse.
I slam my phone face-down on my desk, startling my colleague next me. She peeks at me like a curious meerkat.
“Did your oat milk latte betray you?”
“Worse,” I mutter, flipping open my planner. “My ex is still trying to crawl out of the emotional grave he dug himself.”
“Oof. Persistent?”
“Like athlete’s foot. With feelings.”
She snorts and ducks back into her seat, leaving me with a fresh spreadsheet, a to-do list longer than my patience, and a heart that won’t stop flinching every time his name lights up my phone.
Because the worst part? The absolute worst, most humiliating part?
I still want to listen.
God, I hate that about me.
I hate that my brain is still running reruns of us in bed, his stupid hand in my hair, his voice in my ear saying things like, “You’re it for me, Soph.”
Apparently, “it” includes letting fame-hungry Tabloid Girl latch onto him like a barnacle with lip gloss.
I spin in my chair until I feel marginally less homicidal and then force myself to focus on the screen.
Emails. Reports. Schedules. All of it swirling together into a nice, numbing void where I don’t have to feel anything.
I survive the morning on caffeine and thinly veiled sarcasm. Lunchtime hits, and I’m halfway through a wilted salad when Georgia from accounts flops down opposite me in the break room and eyes me like I’m a bug under a microscope.
“You look hot,” she says. “Scorned woman hot.”
“That’s because I am. My entire love life’s been napalmed.”
She beams. “Amazing. Want to come out with us Friday? There’s this new rooftop place. Cocktails, string lights, minimal chances of running into your ex.”
I consider it. The Sophie before Murphy would’ve gone in a heartbeat. She’d have worn something bold, danced like she was invincible, and laughed at boys with too much gel in their hair.
That version of me’s still in here somewhere. She’s just limping a bit.
“Maybe,” I say. “If I’m not knee-deep in spreadsheets.”
“If you’re not, I’m stealing you.”
She tosses her apple core in the bin like a mic drop and breezes out, leaving me alone with my salad and the faint buzz of my phone vibrating again.
Another voice note.
Murphy, again.
I don’t open it. I don’t delete it either. I just stare at it as if it might explode.
Because here’s the thing, I know he didn’t cheat. Not technically. He didn’t kiss her, didn’t go home with her, didn’t sleep with her.
But he didn’t stop her either.
And that’s where everything unravels.
Because I wasn’t asking for sainthood. I wasn’t even asking for perfection. I was asking for basic respect. The bare minimum. A hand up to say, “No thanks, I’ve got someone already.” A step back. A barrier. A look of loyalty on a face I thought I knew better than my own.
Instead, I got a half-second of frozen hesitation immortalised by paparazzi and splashed across gossip sites like a punchline.
I get up, dump the rest of my salad, and go back to my desk.
Another hour passes. Then another.
By late afternoon, I’ve answered seventeen emails, survived a meeting that could’ve been an email, and resisted the urge to listen to Murphy’s voice note for almost seven full hours. That’s practically sainthood.
Then, because the universe hates me, my phone buzzes again.
Murphy: You don’t have to forgive me. But can you please just let me say this one thing?
I shut my eyes.
Because I know what happens if I say yes. I know how easy it is to fall for his voice, his words, that way he always knew how to soften me just enough to slip back in under my ribs.
He was good at that. Too good.
But I’m not the same girl I was two weeks ago.
So, I text back.
Sophie: Don’t mistake my silence for softness. I’m still angry. I’m still hurt. I’m just choosing not to scream about it.
He reads it instantly.
Three dots appear.
Then disappear.
Then nothing.
Good. Let him sit with that.
I get home around six, throw my bag on the floor, and pull open the fridge as though it personally owes me comfort. There’s a half bottle of wine, some hummus, and enough leftovers to avoid Deliveroo for one night.
I pour a glass of wine, pull on an oversized jumper, and curl up on the couch like I’ve earned it.
Halfway through an old episode of Friends, my phone buzzes again.
Another voice note.
This one’s only eleven seconds.
Which, by Murphy standards, is basically a haiku.
I stare at it, toying with the idea of pressing play.
I don’t.
Not yet.
Instead, I text my sister something innocuous about our mum’s birthday next week, scroll through Instagram until I’m numb, and let Joey Tribbiani’s energy soothe me.
But eventually, because I am tragically human, I press play.
His voice is quiet. Rough. Like maybe he recorded it while lying down. Or maybe he’s just as wrecked as I am.
“I saw your text. You’re right. You don’t owe me anything. But I’m not giving up. I just wanted you to know that.”
That’s it.
No grand speeches. No “I love you.” No begging.
Just that.
I throw my phone across the sofa as if it’s contagious.
Because now I miss him.
Because now it hurts again.
Because now, all the anger’s still there, burning hot and sharp, but tangled in it is something softer I’m not ready to name.
I don’t know what to do with that.
So I don’t do anything.
I finish my wine. I cry for exactly seven minutes at the end of the episode. I fall asleep on the sofa with my heart still cracked right down the centre.
But I don’t reply.
Because I’m not ready.
Not yet.
And maybe not ever.