Sonny's face pops up briefly on the starting line-up visual as I'm settling down on my couch in front of the TV, sipping on a glass of orange juice.

It's a brisk afternoon matchup against an in-form Brighton team. We don't start off playing all too well, but the match is an exciting one, with the opponent leaving so much open space on the field for our attackers to barge in. I'm a bundle of nerves as usual, filled with dread every time a red shirt crowds the Tottenham half. The jitters don't stop me still being completely engrossed with the game though, soaking in each and every move. For the most part, I'm following the ball, but I can't help my eyes always finding what our number seven is up to.

In the 10th minute of the game, it happens—a goal from Sonny. It's a beautiful shot, curled to perfection from just outside the box. It's a signature Son Heung Min goal. The crowd erupts, and a rush of overwhelming emotions engulfs me.

The graphic on the screen says it's his 100th goal in the premier league. That's a tremendous achievement for him. It's hard to describe what I'm feeling – pride of a fan who's supported him so ardently for so long, happiness of a friend who got to know him as a person, but with that there's a tinge of something else. Something I can't quite put my finger on.

Sonny celebrates passionately with his teammates, the picture of joy, without a care in the world. He has worked so hard for this, and he deserves it so so much. I truly am happy for the footballer Sonny. But...

Tears threaten to well up in my eyes.

What's wrong with me for fuck's sake.

I put down my drink and hide my face on my soft hoodie sleeve. For some reason, I can't look at the screen. I just can't.

How did it come to this?

He didn't even do anything wrong to me. But I can't help how I feel.

I take deep breaths and go into compartmentalization mode, stashing away those big emotions in a mental box I'm not ready to unpack just yet.

The game continues, a messy affair of peculiar calls from the referee, mostly in our favor. A clear penalty for Brighton is not given, and a goal that was probably perfectly legitimate is chalked off as offside. Spurs eke out a 2-1 win, though it feels thoroughly undeserved.

I get up and switch off the broadcast without waiting to see the usual post-match reactions. Just not in the mood for it today.

Pacing back and forth on the hardwood floors of my living room, I gnaw on my lower lip relentlessly.

It's like anything related to Spurs has become a sore topic for me. The sport, the team, the player – they've all somehow started to make me...uncomfortable...and I hate it. The situation was already bad enough with the manager sacked, results being so dismal and no hope of things getting better. Now with everything that happened with Sonny...

But what are we even – Sonny and me?

This is not really a knot I can untangle right now. I sigh.

Desperate for distraction, I retreat to my desk. A pair of small succulents and a collection of knickknacks I picked up throughout the years stand in an orderly fashion. Outside, a light rain has begun to fall, droplets pattering against the window overlooking the late afternoon gray skyline.

I switch on the iMac and seek out my happy place. My precious excel sheets.

I've always been what might be referred to as a bit of a nerd, but when it comes to football, I have reached a next level. I'm like a football-loving Hermione Granger, but without the pressing need for a gold star from Professor McGonagall. I give out my own gold stars, thank you very much.

I love reading all football news, and looking at the data, absorbing as much information as I can. It's become a hobby/obsession of sorts.

I import the records from the latest games, and tinker with them on my spreadsheet. I've had to pay actual money for some of this, but I don't mind spending a little for a pet project. Who needs love when you've got logistic regression, am I right?

Soon I'm lost in the numbers and my brain is working overtime. It feels a little like solving a puzzle, finding insights in a sea of stats, and it's so rewarding when you find some new bit of information that I haven't seen published elsewhere.

I'm trying to create a new a model to identify the right player additions for any given squad based on team needs and playing styles. It's a complex web of factors to consider - raw ability, tactical fit, statistical production, you name it. Not exactly easy-peasy.

I haven't really tried to share my work publicly or anything yet. This labor of love is purely for my own indulgence.

Right now, I am working through parameters to normalize the stats across different leagues. Finding a universal formula is trickier than I imagined. La Liga may be less physical, but the play is more meticulous, requiring elite awareness and technical security. Serie A has a more direct style, but speed of the game is much slower. My brain is working overtime as I test out scenario after scenario, wrestling the numbers into submission.

I'm in full on trial-and-error mode, completely in the zone, when a loud buzz startles me piercing the periphery of my hyper-focused mind.

A quick glance at the offending device, and my stomach clenches in an all-too-familiar swirl, seeing Sonny's name the screen.

A sense of thrill, joy and anger passes through me all at once, like lightening striking a pole.

Why is it that he always texts or calls right after a game? It was the same last week too when he wanted to come over, and the time before that as well, when we went on our first date.

Grabbing the phone, with more force than intended, I swipe to open my messages immediately. Who even cares if it's marked as read or not at this point.

'Is everything okay? :)' The message reads, probably referencing to the fact that I hadn't replied to his message yesterday.

Is it? I don't know, you tell me.

'Wdym?' I respond curtly.

The guilt comes straightaway, that familiar lurch of regret for being so abrupt and callous. But there's also the faintest trace of perverse satisfaction, as if this is some kind of payback. I never claimed to be a good person.

I tap my fingers on the table impatiently, staring at the phone screen.

The three-dot bubble I despise so much appears and disappears once.

'Haven't heard from you in a while.' His reply finally arrives

That's it? That single, dangling statement is all he has to offer? I wait, half-expecting something else to appear, but it remains blank. The silence stretches like a chasm between us.

My heart races as my stomach roils with confused emotions I can't put words to. What does he want me to say to this? Do I have to spell out everything?

I didn't reply to your messages because I was hurt to see how easily you cast me aside. I kept my distance because I was embarrassed of how I fell for you far too quickly. I'm sad because I spent each day thinking of you, yet you never said those words I wanted to hear the most – that you missed me.

No, I won't explain myself to lay bare the depths of my insecurities and demean myself further.

My fingers shake as I lock the screen and toss the phone on the bed.

Pulling my knees to my chest, I make my body as small as possible, trying to physically contain the storm within. Dull raindrops trail sluggish paths down the windowpane, and I go back to an old childhood game I played during long road trips – creating an imaginary race between two rogue droplets. Follow the drops, try not to think about anything else. Just breathe.

I don't know how long I sit there, but eventually the phone vibrates again.

A deep sigh escapes me, because I know full well, I can't not look at that message right now.

Who knows though, it might not even be him, probably some dumb offer from a website I signed up on for a 10% discount.

I get up and rush to the bed, as urgency builds up within me. With leaden fingers, I snatch up the phone, squinting against the screen.

Oh, it's him alright.

'Are we even dating?' The four words gut me like a bodily punch, stealing what little breath is left in my lungs. My heart plummets straight through the floor as I read them again. And again.

His tone is definitely not pleasant.

The simmering resentment inside me bubbles over into pure petty defiance.

How dare he. Am I the one who said let's not see each other? Does he call what we were doing 'dating'?

'Are we?' I fire back recklessly.

There, I think bitterly. That serves him right. Let him stew in confusion, the way I have been stewing.

'Is this some puzzle? What does that mean?'

His response comes swiftly, those three menacing dots blinking with palpable anger.

Pfft. Okay, I see how he wants to play this. Fine, I can double down too.

'You tell me.' I can keep doing this forever.

A flood of rage fills me as I hit send. I don't even know at what specifically, but everything just makes me want to explode.

How dare he be mad at me. Is this how he treats all the girls he 'dates'?

Yes, we had a fancy dinner, and we had a night in at my apartment, so technically, sure, you can say this qualifies as a relationship. But wouldn't normal people want to see each other more often, text each other more casually, actually share bits of their life as they get to know each other? Not this hot and cold bullshit, only hitting me up once every week or two, when he's done with all his other priorities. Does he have to make it so obvious that I'm last on his list? That I'm nothing more than just a disposable fling.

'It's not like we're real anyway.' I write another message before he can reply.

There, I said it. The thing that was in my mind all this time. That we are not 'real'.

Because that's it, isn't it? That's the ugly, unembellished reality: These intense bursts of connection and warmth between us, it can never become real.

I allowed myself to get in far too deep, to convince myself this thing could ever grow into something lasting. Well, not anymore.

Minutes drag on with no further messages.

I'm ready to give up hope and just move on with my day when the phone buzzes again.

'Clearly I'm the only one that cares.' His message has a strange tone of finality.

My heart sinks, and I don't know what to say.

This is it, the moment of truth. Of walking away and going back to normal life. I should feel relieved, vindicated even that he's cutting the cord first. Isn't this what I wanted?

'If you think so,' I type back after a few contemplative minutes. Tears blur my vision, and this time, I can't hold them back.

***

The hustle and bustle of Camden market overwhelms my senses. Neon signs and colorful murals splash across weathered brick, the mouth-watering aroma of street food mingles with incense and petrol fumes, and buskers' melodies compete with the constant hum of chatter and laughter.

It's controlled chaos, this tangled web of vendors hawking vintage clothes, antiques, records, and every sort of trinket imaginable. The kind of organized pandemonium that should excite me, fill me up with anticipation and possibility.

But not today.

Today, the vibrant scenes and pulsing energy only grate against me like nails on a chalkboard. I trail half a step behind Steph, hands jammed into the pockets of my black wool coat as I blindly navigate the jumbled maze.

'Over here, they've got the cutest little boutique!' she chirps, forever the quintessential hipster, tugging me toward some beaten-up shopfront.

Her enthusiasm bounces off me like a rubber ball against concrete. With heavy steps, I follow her inside, pretending to examine the bohemian wares even as my mind drifts off a thousand miles away.

Every waking moment, there is only one track my thoughts want to go on. Sonny.

I usually avoid any plan that interferes with a Spurs game, but when Steph suggested going out shopping this weekend, I intentionally proposed a time that would ensure to keep me out of the house the whole match day. I just couldn't bear to watch it. That's how bad things have gotten.

No matter how many times I whisper I'm already happy, and I have everything that I need, it doesn't help anymore...

Of course, Steph instantly sensed something wrong the moment she greeted me, having seen me through every high and low for so long. But thankfully she didn't pry further, and just offered her happy company without comment.

I absentmindedly play with the ring Sonny gave me. It hangs on a delicate chain around my neck now, a silent reminder of that night. I don't even know why I put it on. Maybe an idiotic attempt to hang on to something that is already gone.

I knew better than to get attached. I knew it could never be anything more than a fleeting escape for him. Yet here I am again, hopelessly pining for something that will forever remain out of reach. And even if there was any remote chance of something, I probably blew it last week.

Why did you text like that if you're going to be like this now? I ask myself.

It's a question that I don't know the answer to.

We step out of the store, and I wonder aimlessly before finding a specialty candle shop. I walk in and feign interest in smelling each and every variety they have in stock, while my mind wanders off again.

Whatever happened, happened.

To be honest, it's a good thing that it ended sooner rather than later. Yes, after I came out of that red haze, I felt bad for how rude I was to him. Yes, his final message and the radio silence for the whole week afterwards hurt. It really hurt.

But it could have hurt more down the line.

Because deep down, one certainty clings to me like a second skin, shadowing every waking moment: this thing with Sonny, no matter how intoxicating, could never last. Eventually, that fragile connection would have frayed beyond repair, and I would have been left even more alone than before, hollowed out like an empty husk.

For despite my deepest hopes, despite this burning, desperate desire, the truth is undeniable: He will never ever be mine, not really. And maybe, just maybe, I'm not enough to be his.

My eyes prickle up with tears and I look up to see Steph watching me intently.

'Must be sensitive to this fragrance or something,' I mumble.

She frowns but doesn't say anything.

'Come on, let's go.' She locks her arm with mine and drags me out of the shop.

Somehow, I find it in me to nod, leaning on her in a silent act of gratitude for her unwavering friendship.

Steph tugs me through the doors of a kitschy ice cream shop, a tinny bell jangling overhead, and I'm suddenly enveloped in a flood of manufactured nostalgia - red vinyl seats, checkerboard floors, and poppy 50s jams crooning from a vintage jukebox.

'Go on, pick something,' she urges, gesturing to the colorful assortment of tubs.

My mouth curves upwards, despite everything. Steph may not know what's bothering me, but in her world, the solution is simple - a scoop of sugary, frozen goodness.

What did I do to deserve such great friends?

I decide on classic strawberry, while Steph opts for a mint chocolate chip. Well that ensures I won't be stealing any of hers because, to me, it tastes like toothpaste.

Before we are about to take the first bite, a sudden impulse strikes me, and I swipe left on the phone in my hand to open up the selfie camera.

Steph's face lights up as it comes into frame, and for now, and for this brief moment, I can feign that simple joys still have a place in my world as well.

'Say ice cream!' Steph smiles brightly.

I, too, smile and press the button, capturing this moment in time forever, filled with the warmth of a friend's genuine gesture of kindness.

***

I lie in bed, nestled beneath my duvet, with this year's Booker Prize winner propped open on my knees.

I wish I could say I'm perfectly cozy and content, but I am not. The words on the page are floating before my eyes, without any meaning being conveyed.

The reality is that frustration and confusion are like restless ghosts, haunting any chance of peace. The fact that Spurs ended up losing to Bournemouth didn't help either. Sonny scored, for what it's worth, but that's little comfort.

Feeling defeated, I put down the book and pick up my phone. As one does.

I have a new rule of no Twitter on days when Spurs lose, so instead I look through my photos from today.

Yes, focus on the lovely day you spent with Steph.

I should be grateful at her thoughtfulness. I smile looking at her cheerful face and crescent moon eyes. My face beside her stares back at me, seemingly carefree as well. I'm all put together – dewy face, glossy pink lips, a neat wool coat atop a white blouse, and for jewelry...

My hand goes to my neck too feel it.

I'm still wearing it. Sonny's ring around my neck.

My heart lurches.

But then, the glint from the distinctive geometric silver in the photo sparks a thought.

It's silly, it really is.

I don't know if there's even a point after all this.

He probably wouldn't even see it.

But what if he does? Afterall, he still follows me. So, what if he...

I bite my lips, eyebrows knotted together.

Opening up my social media, I load up the photo and hastily write a caption: 'Love this girl so much, and also love my new necklace <3'. I press upload before I have a chance to second-guess anything.

An olive branch. Of sorts.

I lock my phone and hide it under the pillow, as if that makes the whole effort any less mortifying. Turning off the lights, I go under the covers, my cheeks and ears warm. It's barely 10 PM but I don't think I am in the mental state to do anything else today.

I drift off at some point, lost in half-dreams and fancies that skirt the edges of reality, before the sound from a notification breaks the spell.

Jolting back to consciousness, I look at the alert.

Sonny sent a DM on my story.

Shit. It really worked.

My fingers tremble as I open the message.

'So?' Just the one word. Is this an invitation or a challenge?

A multitude of emotions comes over me, but one overrules them all. Yearning.

'So...I care.' It's a callback to his last text. I sincerely wish he can feel the earnestness behind my words.

His response is almost instantaneous.

':)'

Relief washes over me.

He really is a golden retriever of a man, isn't he? It takes so little to mollify him.

My phone buzzes again. 'Can I see you tomorrow night?'

I don't even hesitate before typing back a 'Yes.'

There's no point turning back now. It's already too late. Sink or swim, I have to continue on this path and see it through, till there nowhere left to go. Because I can't let him go like this, not until I've exhausted every last possibility.

With Sonny's ring clasped in my hand, I fall back asleep, choosing to remain in my fantasy world for just a little longer.