The Other One

I found out I was the other guy when her boyfriend called her phone during dinner.

Her name was Layla. We met at a gig. She was funny. Quick. She had a laugh like breaking glass and a way of looking at you like you were the only person who'd ever said something clever. We went on five dates. I thought, this is it. This is the one.

I never asked if she was single. I assumed. That's the stupidity of falling too fast.

On our fifth date, at a tiny tapas place with candles and bad lighting, her phone buzzed on the table. Screen up. A name, a photo. A guy in a blue shirt, grinning, arm around her, in what looked like a Christmas jumper. The contact: "Danny ❤️"

She snatched it. Declined the call. Looked up, face white.

"It's complicated," she said.

"Is he your brother?"

She shook her head.

"Three years," she whispered. "We're... on a break. Sort of."

On a break. A phrase made for liars and cowards.

I paid. Walked her to her cab. She tried to hold my hand. I let go.

Three weeks later, I saw her Instagram. A photo. Her and Danny, Christmas jumpers, a tree behind them. "Back together. Better than ever."

I'd been the break.

Not the person she chose.

Just the place she waited until he came home.