Page 124 of Power Play
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.
