The message came in while I was still in the bathroom with the light on and last night’s mascara doing that crunchy thing it does when you have not taken it off on purpose. I had one airpod in. Mia was humming in the kitchen like a person with no crimes on her conscience. Sophie had already gone to pilates, which is how you know the universe wanted me unsupervised.
I opened Instagram because I am unwell.
There it was. A new request. Pretty girl. Good lighting. Mutuals I sort of recognised from nights that blur into each other. No hello. No “hope you’re well”. Just:
“That’s my mate’s boyfriend.”
I stared at it longer than I will admit. Then I typed. Then I deleted. Then I posted the next photo anyway.
The photo that started it
It was blurry on purpose. I am not an idiot. Elbow, jaw, the edge of a smile, a pint that was not mine. Taken in that window seat at the place on Bateman Street where the glass fogs and everyone looks more expensive than they are. He had his hand on the back of my chair like he paid rent there. I cropped the face because I am messy, not reckless. Or that is the story I tell myself in the morning.
Caption was nothing. A full stop. Sometimes a full stop does more work than a paragraph.
I knew he had someone. I did not know she had a best friend with notifications on and a moral compass she was prepared to use in my DMs before noon. That is on me. I keep underestimating the group chat industrial complex.
He had said they were “complicated”. Men love that word. It does a lot of heavy lifting for people who do not want to say “I have a girlfriend and I also wanted to come home with you”. I let it lift. I liked the way he looked at me when the music got loud. I liked the story forming in real time. I liked that less once her friend had a username and a paragraph of righteousness sitting in my inbox.
What I typed and did not send
First draft was nasty. Something about how if he was that taken he would not have his tongue in my mouth at twenty past one. I deleted it because it made me sound like I was applying for a job I did not want.
Second draft was colder. “Noted.” I nearly sent that. It is clean. It is also a bit try hard. I do not need to win a DM war with a stranger who has decided I am the plot twist in her friend’s relationship.
Third draft was honest, which is dangerous. I wrote that I did not know the full picture, that he had not mentioned a name, that I was not going to pretend I am a nun because someone else failed to close a door. Then I deleted that too. Honesty is my vice. It is not always my strategy.
I put the phone face down on the sink. Looked in the mirror. Redid my mouth. That is not vanity. That is how I think.
Then I opened the camera roll and found the next frame. Same night. Worse angle. His watch again, my knee, the streetlight doing something filthy on the pavement. I posted it to the grid this time. Not the story. The grid is a statement. Stories disappear. The grid stays and argues for you.
Mia said I was being thick. She was not wrong.
I showed her the message because secrecy in this flat lasts about four minutes.
She read it, snorted, and said, “so the girlfriend has a press officer now.”
I said, “I should take it down.”
Mia said, “you should, if you want to be a better person before lunch. Do you?”
I did not answer. She already knew. Sophie would have given me the long look and the speech about not making other women collateral. Sophie is usually right. Sophie was at pilates. The house always votes when she is out.
Mia made tea and put it in front of me like a peace offering and a dare. “You posted a blurry photo. You did not tag him. You did not write his name. Her friend sliding in is not the same as you burning a house down. It is just a girl protecting a girl. You do that too. You also protect the anecdote. Pick one for the next hour.”
I picked the anecdote. I always do. That is the unflattering bit. I can live with unflattering if it photographs.
He texted, of course he did
Not immediately. They never do immediately when they have been caught in the soft lighting. He waited long enough to look casual. “Think you should take that down babe.”
Babe. At 12:41. After radio silence since he left my building with his collar up.
I wrote “which one” and hated how pleased I was with myself.
He called. I did not pick up. I am not doing verbal when I can do written. Written I can quote later.
Second text: “Her mate is being a nightmare. It’s not what you think.”
It is always what you think. That is the joke. Complicated means exactly what it looks like when you are sober and the photo is still up.
I sent him the screenshot of her friend’s message with no comment. Let him sit with the fact that two women were now doing admin on his behalf. Then I put my phone in the fruit bowl so I would stop stroking it.
The bit I keep circling
I am not proud of the girlfriend. I do not know her. She has a best friend who will send a sentence into the void for her, which means she is loved, which means she is a person and not a plot device. I know that. I am not a cartoon villain. I am a girl who went home with a man who still had someone else’s toothbrush energy and then I put the night on the internet because that is how I metabolise things.
Does that make me worse than him? Probably in a different direction. He lied with his mouth. I lied with a crop and then refused to tidy it up when the bill came due.
Would I have posted the second photo if she had messaged me herself? I do not know. A best friend is easier to ignore. A best friend is one step removed. You can tell yourself you are not in a conversation with the actual wound. You are in a conversation with the PR.
That is cope. I know it is cope. I am writing it down anyway.
What the comments did
People love a blurry man. They think they are detectives. Half of them guessed last month’s situation. One person clocked the bar. A boy I used to kiss in first year wrote “you never change” like that was an insult and not the thesis of this whole site.
Nobody except her friend knew the true piece. That is the strange intimacy of it. Ten thousand people looking at a jawline. One person looking at a crime scene.
I almost replied to her after the second post went up. Something small. “I hear you.” I did not send that either. It would have been decent and it would have also been a confession that I had read her, weighed her, and chosen the hit. Some things you should not put in writing even if you have already put the photo up.
Sunday afternoon in Parsons Green
The light in this flat is rude after midday. It shows everything. The wine mark on the coffee table. The fact I still had glitter in my hair from a night that was supposed to be low key. Sophie came home pink from exercise and took one look at my face.
“What did you do.”
Not a question really.
I handed her the phone. She read the DM. She looked at the new post. She put the phone down like it was hot.
“Chels.”
“I know.”
“You do not though. You know it makes a good paragraph. That is different.”
She is right. She is often right and I still do the thing. I told her I would think about taking it down. I have thought about it. It is still there. Thinking is not the same as doing. I am excellent at thinking.
Sophie went to shower. Mia put a playlist on that was too cheerful. I sat on the worktop and ate leftover toast like a person awaiting sentencing.
The friend has not written again. Maybe she said her piece. Maybe the girlfriend has now seen it and I am about to become a name in a much longer conversation I am not invited to. Maybe he will do the decent thing for once and I will never hear from any of them. All of those options are fine. Only one of them gives me an ending I can use.
Why I posted the next one anyway
Because taking it down would have been an apology I did not fully mean. Because the second photo was better. Because I do not like being told what to do by a stranger, even when the stranger is correct. Because I have built a small life out of not flinching when the message arrives.
Also because I wanted to see if I would feel worse after. I do, a bit. Not enough to kneel. Enough to write this with my jaw tight.
If you are the friend, I saw you. I deleted three replies and chose the picture. That is the truth. It is not noble. It is not even very interesting once you strip the lighting out. A man was sloppy. I was sloppy in public. You tried to tidy it. I declined.
If you are him, lose my number. Not because I have found a conscience overnight. Because I do not want to be the girl in the middle of your group chat while you play complicated. I will write about you. I will not wait around to be managed.
If you are everyone else, yes, the photo is still up. No, I will not confirm the bar. And no, I am not sorry in the way that makes a tidy caption.
I typed. I deleted. I posted the next one anyway.
That is the whole plot. The rest is just me sitting with it until it looks like a story.
