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You've been crushing on Fify for years before you first meet, at a fancy event you barely managed to get an invite to. Your eyes make contact, and before even the first smile, the first words, you know.
Your first date, after a few hours of chit-chat and fire under your skin, is in the back of a tiny restaurant where no one can see the two of you. He’s charming, flirty, kind in all the ways you've ever wanted in a partner. When he leaves, he bows to kiss your hand, and you catch his collar and end up staining yourself with his lipstick. He gets tears in his eyes. That's fine. You’ve always wanted someone sensitive.
Fify always smells of cinnamon, and tastes of lip gloss. You pick out your favourite tastes and they wear them whenever you’re together.
You give them massages whenever they’ve been working late and their shoulders hurt. They show you the songs the band is making and dance with you to them.
By the time Fify is officially your partner, you want to say it. You know it. They treat you so well, and what more could you want? You lie away at night thinking of them and tracing their name into the back of your leg. She hasn't yet invited you to into her bed when your dates grow late, putting you in the spare room. You stand outside on the balcony and loosen your dressing gown to feel the breeze against your bare chest.
She finds you like that. You kiss her like you need to memorise her body with your lips alone, then you go through to her bed and curl up on it together. She mutters something as she’s drifting off, and you don’t recognise it. Your heart burns with everything you feel for her.
You tell them ‘I love you’ like you've meant it for lifetimes. They look at you.
“I know.”
You tell them there's never been anyone else in the world for you. Their eyes gleam with tears in the soft light of their bedroom.
“Yeah. Me neither.”
They mutter “I love you too” into the crook of your neck then turn onto their side to sleep.
You've never loved anyone like you’ve loved them before. You say that. They listen. They say the same when you're done. They say they’re happy when they’re with you. You believe them.
The tabloids speculate around the two of you getting married. You’re a little tipsy and toss one down in front of him. “Well? Will you?” He’s clearly startled by your entrance, looking up from the phone he always keeps with him.
“If you'd like,” is what he says. You kiss him in excitement.
You don't sleep that night from the excitement rushing through your brain. You hear the ping of a text. He always goes for his phone whenever he hears that sound. He peels himself carefully away from you and walks out of the room. The light from the screen illuminates his face, and in the moment you're able to see it, he looks more real and more sad than you've ever seen him before in your life.
She doesn't leave her phone the next day. She talks vaguely about fox dos, but seems reluctant to book a date. It's not until she gets another ping that she finally tells you she can do something fun with TARDIS and a few other friends.
On the wedding day they turn up almost late. There's an empty seat at the front, filled just minutes before the ceremony begins. Not quite a reservation. Hope, maybe.
Their perfume is applied so heavily it makes your eyes water. It's only when you kiss them that you realise the alcohol the scent is covering. Perhaps for the rest of the wedding, it's not enough for anyone else to notice, but you taste it on your tongue for the rest of the night.
They say that same word at night. Never clear, mumbled and hushed in sleep, but that same one. You go to tease them about it. Your tongue stops itself. You stare at them, then roll over. You lie facing away from them, and it takes a while longer than usual to fall asleep.
With your marriage, they’re more quiet. They still carry about that old phone. You ask him why he doesn’t replace it.
“Sentimental value.”
You smile.
You turn it over in the bathroom’s stark light that night. You pull off the case and inspect the back. You find the date. A 2024 model.
You think of the new phone he got last month. The one that is certainly not this. The one he doesn't put on his nightstand. You stare at the phone and feel bile rise up. You tread silently back into the room and put it on his side, then retreat to your old bedroom.
You claim a headache that only personal space will cure. It's not your head that hurts, but he kisses your forehead tenderly and you burrow yourself under the cover and feel properly ill.
He asks you to have some soup, then, when you say you're not hungry, tries to kiss you into it. You make yourself eat it, sip by sip, then lie back down. He sits down on the bed and strokes your arm, and when you press your leg against him, you feel the outline of that phone in his pocket.
“You love me, don't you?”
“Of course I do.”
After that, you return to sleeping in his bed.
Every night, you lie there, sometimes asleep, sometimes awake, but always listening for the ping that haunts you.
Time passes. Fify writes a love song. At the band's first show in a new tour, he plays it to you. It doesn't sound like his style. His bandmates look at each other warily. Every time he sings your name it sounds wrong in the lyrics.
You wake up in a cold sweat. You're alone, in your old room, the one before you shared Fify’s, the one from when you thought they shared their heart with you, their whole heart. You sit in silence, staring numbly at the floor.
You pick up your own phone. You hum the melody into it. It comes up with a different song, by a different artist. You see who wrote it. You remember the sound they whisper at night. You remember the old tour in 2025 they don't tend to talk about.
Your spouse wrote you a love song with a melody from the man they’re still in love with.
You need to get out, so you go to a private hotel. You stay till the very last day of the tour, then return home. You sit on the sofa. He comes in. He's looking at his phone. You stand. You reach out. He sees you. His eyes widen. But you take it, and you see the name of the contact, Rogue, and you turn to look at him. You think of throwing it out the window.
Instead, you just drop it. You walk away. You lock yourself in your old room and he doesn't try to pretend you could ever fix this.
You watch the videos from those tours. You check the archives of his social media from the time. You bite your lip and your eyes burn with hot tears.
“It's just…” Fify begins when you come out again. “It's just… I care about him. I miss him.”
“And you didn't even leave me. Didn't even divorce me.”
“If you want. I'll call my lawyer tomorrow -”
“ Don’t.” You turn and leave.
You sleep at a different place that night. A new number texts. You know immediately that it's the phone they keep on the nightstand.
I really am sorry.
Don't you dare text me with this number.
You block it.
The tabloids gossip about your sudden silence, you and Fify’s marriage. Your sleep is broken by dreams of that elusive man, the exhausted muttering of his name, the ping of his texts, the melody that Fify used in the love song they made for you. You find yourself tapping it into the mattress, the walls, the tables, the chairs. You’re startled every time your phone chimes, every time your social media brings up Rian. You stare at the pictures for too long every time you see him, and now you can’t even turn on your phone without seeing his face. It’s fine. You were getting sick of your phone anyway.
“I haven't felt for anyone what I feel for you,” Fify tries to say when you return to gather your things. You need somewhere more private than a hotel room.
“What,” you say, “apathy?”
He flinches. “No, it’s… No, not that.”
“God. And to think -” You cut yourself off. “You were really in love with that man the whole time we were together?”
Fify’s eyes search yours. “He… He sees me.”
“And I COULDN’T?” Your voice escapes you. “Why on earth did you do this, us, if you were still- still pining after him?”
There’s silence for a second.
“I’ll help you get your things.”
“I don’t want your help. Just let me go.”
You almost block him that night, but you text him instead.
Call your lawyer. I want to get divorced.
Fify puts out some statement or other when it reaches the tabloids. You imagine the ping of his phone and hate that you wonder what the texts between them will be saying.
You turn to vinyl and CDs, because Spotify just gives you his music eventually. That love song composed with another person’s melody. You know who it was meant for, now. Whose name was meant to be in place of yours.
Maybe you need a fresh start.
Fify doesn't fight you in the divorce. You look at houses with big windows, in quiet areas where you won’t be disturbed. Publishers offer exorbitant sums for interviews and tell-alls. You delete their emails and pay upfront. You move and don’t have enough things to fill it all
You get a new phone. You change the passwords of all your old social media accounts and lock yourself out. You haven’t yet blocked Fify’s number, but the last text between the two of you was their ok. from when you told them about the divorce.
You wonder, as the rain falls outside in sheets, and you sit in this empty house with too many bedrooms, where Fify will be going now. You think you’ve grown a bit sick of love. A bit sick of their love, for you and Rian.
You doze off there, because you don’t like your cold bed. You wake early, aching, and move over to the window. The rain has softened, turning into a faint sheen. You loosen your dressing gown and open the window to feel the breeze on your chest. You stand there for a while, in unfocused thought, then reach for your phone and block Fify’s number. You stand there for a few moments longer, rubbing your hands, before you go to make tea.