He shrugs. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one I had after I told Mia to stay away from me once because I didn’t know how to deal with my own shit.”
I scoff, but it’s hollow.
“You miss her?” he asks, softer now.
I swallow. “Every minute.”
He nods. “Then don’t waste it. Don’t wait for the perfect time to fix it, Murph. Just start. Even if it’s messy.”
“I have started. I’ve texted. Called. Sent voice notes.”
“But what have youchanged?”
That lands like a gut punch.
I look down at my hands. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure that out.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Then start small. Don’t just say you’re sorry. Show her. Prove it. Be the man she thought you were before those pictures.”
I nod, slow. “You think she’ll even give me the time of day?”
“She’s Sophie,” he says. “Which means you’ve got about a ten percent chance, and it’ll hurt like hell, but it’s not zero.”
I laugh, short and sharp. “Inspiring, mate.”
“You screwed up,” he adds. “But I believe you didn’t cheat. And I don’t think she’s the kind of girl you give up on.”
That quiet faith in his voice? It matters more than I want to admit.
He claps a hand to my shoulder before heading off towardMia, who’s already raising an eyebrow like she knows he’s about to say something vaguely romantic.
I finish my pint and nurse the silence for a second before Mia slides back into the booth across from me.
“You alright?” she says, echoing Dylan’s earlier question.
“No one’s alright,” I mutter. “We’re all walking trauma in compression shorts.”
She snorts. “Fair.”
Then her expression softens. “He’s right, you know. Dylan. About proving it.”
I glance at her. “Think she’ll even listen?”
“She might,” Mia says. “Eventually. But only if she sees something worth listening to. Not just regret. Change.”
I nod, absorbing it. “Got any tips?”
“Start by not being a dick,” she says sweetly. “Then keep going.”
“Noted.”
She reaches for her coat. “And maybe don’t try to win her back with memes and sad-boy Spotify playlists.”
“I only sentone.”