Page 122 of Power Play
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. Forus.
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, inme,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.
