First message
The pool is quiet except for the rhythm of my breathing and the slap of water against tile. Fifty laps in, I stop at the wall and pull myself up onto the deck, reaching automatically for my phone.
Big mistake.
The first photo hits me like a punch. Then another. Then another.
Bangkok.
You, laughing on a rooftop terrace. You, walking through a night market. You and Julian fucking Rattanakul standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the background of a blurry fan photo, looking entirely too comfortable.
No.
My pulse spikes harder than any sprint set ever could. I scroll faster. A tabloid headline. More pictures. Julian’s hand at your back. His smile. Yours.
Julian.
Of all people, him.
The guy who’s spent the better part of a decade turning every race into a personal insult. The guy who acts like the world belongs to him. The guy who’d absolutely enjoy this.
For a second I convince myself it’s nothing. Then I remember the way he looks at people when he wants something.
And suddenly I’m dialing your number. It rings. Straight to voicemail.
Hey.
I stop, jaw tightening.
Hey, it’s me.
A long silence follows. I can hear water dripping from my hair onto the concrete.
I saw the photos.
Immediately I regret saying it like that.
Look, I don’t… I don’t care who you’re seeing. That’s not why I’m calling.
A lie so transparent it’s embarrassing.
I just think we should talk. Okay? Just call me back when you get this.
I hang up.
I can’t lose you now. Not to him.