Stand-up Sam - Part Three

Dumbfounded and (momentarily) desperate I did something stupid.

I tried to justify my action by telling myself that it's okay to go a little off the rails, that I've had a hard break-up and been acting strangely nonchalant about it - well, so concerned friends told me. They were anxiously awaiting for me to flip my bitch-switch, and rightly so. It was my time to shine.

But, allow me to back track a little... My departure from the ex boyfriend meant having to acquire a new phone after he reported my existing phone as "stolen". Dick move. Technically speaking, we had no marital contract in terms of network provider, it was his phone; but in the mist of restarting a whole new life chapter, quicker than he could pull-out to notice, I figured a debt of £240 was a light sentence? In the interim, he used this as a bargaining tool to try and break my silence, questioning my integrity. The guy genuinely believed I would seize to function without that phone, and that I would have no choice but to plead with him to solve the disconnection problem (narcissist), when I just got a new phone! I placed the original in a kitchen drawer if he ever wished to retrieve his goods. Funnily enough he never did.

So, by the time the snow had melted and the spring air promised new prospects, I had already started my new digital life: profile overhauls of hiding holiday snaps and questioning "friend" lists... There he was. SAM! SHIT.

Cheesy-grinned and staring back at me in eerie resemblance to Chucky, he was both visible and contactable on Whatsapp. A new number meant no more access 'restrictions'.

I stalked him (virtually, of course), while he remained oblivious. His status winking at me, never offline . What the chatty little creep considering I could have sworn he had nothing to say back in February when I was wheeling my suitcase from Liverpool Street station like a dog with its tail between its legs. Yes, I had been enjoying flirting and fantasizing with Aidan, but I still searched for answers with Sam. I blamed myself.

Nights home alone I let curiosity conquer my boredom and visited Sam's Instagram page. He hadn't blocked me. We were still linked; he still "followed" me: the open definition of the online stalker (at least it worked both ways). He didn't want to speak to me but he was happy to showcase his #londonlife.

It's funny how a photograph can convey a thousand words. Sam expressed his admiration for one particular girl - they were dating, or so it seemed. She was rather gorgeous too. How the fuck did he do it!? I felt so so ugly, but at least now I understood.

Fast-forward to some weeks passed, and Aidan's revelation sugar-coating the icing to my layer-cake of pure self-pity... I didn't cry, I couldn't, but I felt ALL of it. If only Confused.com provided advice from a team of romanticizing agony aunts and not insurance deals. If only I'd taken out my own insurance policy before the accidental damage was caused by a dodgy driver. If only.

The power of hindsight on the high ground just didn't offer me closure anymore. So I text him on a random afternoon at work: "you didn't die then?". His return was sharp and sarcastic: "Apparently not". It made me smirk and I fucking hated that. I pondered my reply and as I looked back at my phone it read:

"I'm so so sorry....".

Ffs.