I am so fucked
The moment you start giggling out loud at your phone because of a text from someone, that’s how you know you’re fucked.
You see, I was starting my day like any other. I’ve got a pretty clear-cut morning routine, which, for someone who usually gets ready in a 30-minute rush, is something I’m oddly proud of.
I wake up at 6:30 to the sound of my daily pre-set alarm. I stretch my body from left to right as I sit on the edge of my bed, glancing out the window, watching the sun creep between the two blocks of my apartment compound.
Then it’s straight to the bathroom. I wash my face with my salicylic acid cleanser, brush my teeth with sensitive toothpaste, and shower with my lemongrass scented body wash. I put on my gym clothes — usually laid out neatly on the sofa the night before.
Breakfast prep usually comes next: a handful of spinach, three eggs, and exactly twelve cherry tomatoes (don’t ask me why) — all waiting for me post-gym. I head down, take a short walk, hop on the train, and go work out. I greet everyone cheerfully as I do every other day, get a solid session in (it was push day, my favourite day of the five day split) and ended it with 30 minutes of cardio. Then I head to the gym shower (I sweat too much to not shower that often) blasting my morning playlist — yes, I play music in the shower; I hope the other ladies in the gym appreaciate my taste.
Then I change into the clothes I packed the night before, spritz on my Michael Kors Wonderlust, and hop back on the train to work.
And that’s when it happened.
I wish I was having a cigarette and an espresso in Italy instead of having feelings
Out of nowhere, I started laughing — no, cackling — to myself. Because I was thinking about the text I got from him yesterday.
Mind you, I never laugh out loud on the LRT. I’m not the type to talk, smile, or make eye contact with anyone. I usually — dare I say, always — maintain a full resting bitch face, especially in the morning. There is even a playlist dedicated to this morning commute known as “When I feel bitchy on the LRT”, a collection of songs that allow me to be that confident main character. So imagine my shock when I caught myself grinning at a message that was sent over 24 hours ago.
And that’s when it hit me: I am so fucked.
By the time I realised I was very much fucked, I’d almost missed my stop. Then I went down the wrong escalator — the one going up. I missed three trains trying to transfer between the LRT and MRT. By the time I reached the office, I was nearly late to the weekly meeting I was supposed to lead. No morning coffee. No post-gym eggs. Just pure chaos.
I thought about what Kate Sharma said in Bridgerton: “it was him, spinning my world off its axis.”
Six months ago, after my last breakup, I told myself I wouldn’t get attached again. Then I met him. Coffee turned into lunch, lunch into Sunday morning sex, morning sex into late outing calls, late night outings turned into afternoon texts, the kind of ones that fuck us over.
I told myself I could do this — see him, talk to him, eat with him, run with him, sleep with him, read next to him, lie on top of him— without getting emotionally attached.
In essence, I was trying to be a man.
But clearly, that’s not possible.
And now, I’m fucked.
- T
