I don’t answer.
The water scalds my skin, but it doesn’t burn away the restlessness twisting in my chest. I lean my forehead against the tile, eyes closed, watching Rose’s face bloom behind my eyelids again and again. Her voice. Her calmness. The way she’d looked at me and saw past the helmet, past the highlight reels, past the bullshit.
I wonder what she’s doing right now. Editing her photos, maybe. Uploading shots of the game. Does she still have the ticket stub in her pocket? Does she think of me when she sees my name flash on the scoreboard?
I turn the water hotter, until it stings.
When I finally step out, the flat is quiet. Talia’s gone to bed. Her phone glows on the nightstand, notifications rolling in like waves. I crawl into my side of the bed. She’s already half-asleep, her back to me. The duvet between us feels like a wall. My phone buzzes once on the dresser with a social media tag. She’s already posted a ‘post-game gratitude’ story, a picture of us smiling from weeks ago, captioned;
Always my number one #PowerCouple.
The comments are full of hearts and fire emojis. I scroll anyway, reading the strangers who think they know us.
He’s so lucky!
Relationship goals!
They’re perfect together!
Perfect.
I toss the phone away and stare into the dark. I used to believe in perfect. In the clean lines of success, the script of how life’s supposed to go. Career, image, girl, trophies. But lately, the script feels wrong. The pages out of order. And tonight, I don’t want to fix it. I just want something honest. Like the way Rose looked at me when she said I played as if I was trying to outrun something.
Because she was right. I am.
Sleep won’t come. The rain taps steady against the glass, a rhythm I can’t match. I give up and pad into the kitchen, barefoot and half-dressed, the tiles cold under my feet. The city outside is a smear of light and shadow. I pour a glass of water and sip it while I stare at nothing. My reflection stares back from the window again, with eyes too dark, jaw too tight, someone I barely recognise.
I pick up my phone before I can talk myself out of it. Open my messages. Scroll past Talia’s name; blue hearts, selfies, schedules. Stop on the blank chat window that’s waiting just beneath it.
Rose.
I never saved her contact properly. Just her number from when I’d typed it in her phone. It’s still blank, still unnamed. The cursor blinks at me.Say something, it seems to whisper.
I type: You get any good shots tonight?
Then delete it.
Type again:Thanks for coming.
Delete.
Type:Couldn’t stop thinking about your question.
Delete.
In the end, I set the phone down like a coward. Or an idiot. Something in between, maybe. I lean back against the counter and exhale. What am I doing? I’ve got a girlfriend, one the world thinks I love, one I probably should love. I’ve got a career people would kill for, fans who chant my name, sponsors who shake my hand. And yet, a woman I barely know has somehow managed to carve her way under my skin. I press my palms to the counter, knuckles white. Maybe it’s just guilt. Maybe I’m confusing remorse with attraction. But it doesn’t feel like guilt. It feels like gravity. She’s the only person who’s looked at me lately and seenme.
I grab my jacket and step out onto the balcony. The air bites cold and clean. Down below, the city hums. I watch the rain come down in sheets, try to let it wash the thoughts away. It doesn’t. Instead, my mind plays tricks. Rose at the shop, camera in hand, that small smile when I teased her. Her voice, low and soft:You play like you’re trying to outrun something.
And the way I wanted to tell her what it was.
It’s after two when I finally go back to bed. Talia stirs when I crawl under the duvet, murmuring something that might be my name. Her hand lands on my arm, light, automatic.
I stare at the ceiling, the space between us loud with everything we don’t say.
She loves the version of me that looks good in photos. The one who remembers brand launches and shows up smiling to every event. Rose doesn’t even know the whole story, and somehow, she already sees more.
I close my eyes. It’s a mess. I know that. I’m not about to throw away my life over a woman I barely know. But the thought of carrying on pretending and performing, it’s starting to rot something inside me. I turn onto my side, away from Talia, and picture Rose instead. The way she’d squinted through her camera, biting her lip as she focused the lens. The moment her eyes met mine after the game, as though she’d caught something private and kept it. My chest tightens. I should forget her.
