Not your girl

Note: Contains adult themes, including emotional conflict and a scene of consensual sexual intimacy.

Gina’s flat smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. The pancakes were browning unevenly, a little burnt at the edges, but Carl didn’t mind. He was sitting at the kitchen island, shirtless, scrolling on his phone, sunlight touching his shoulders. Spotify played some mellow Sunday mix in the background. It felt safe. Soft. Like something she could call hers.

She placed the plate in front of him and kissed his temple, murmured, “There you go, my man.”

He laughed under his breath. But didn’t say anything.

When she sat down with her own plate, he looked up. Smiling, still. But something about it was off.

“I’m not your man,” he said.

Gina blinked. “What?”

Carl shrugged, stabbing a piece of pancake with his fork. “You said ‘my man.’ I’m not your man.”

She waited for the punchline. The smirk. Something. But it didn’t come.

“Come on,” she said. “Don’t be annoying.”

He shook his head, casual, like they were talking about the weather. “I’m serious. We’re not, like… a couple.”

Gina sat back. Her appetite dissolved. “I mean, we’ve been seeing each other for over a year, Carl. You’ve told me you love me.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But not like that.”

“Not like what?”

He looked at her like she was being dramatic. “We’re really great friends. With benefits. We have fun. We travel. It works, doesn’t it?”

The silence screamed between them.

She wanted to say she hadn’t been sleeping with anyone else. That she didn’t want to. That she’d bought travel-size shampoo for their next trip. That she thought maybe, finally, she wasn’t wasting her heart.

Instead, she smiled. Tight. “Yeah. It works.”

Carl finished his pancakes. Asked what she was doing the rest of the day. She said she had cleaning to do. Some writing.

He kissed her on the forehead, said he’d text later. And left.

She made it to the bathroom just in time to vomit.

The bathroom lights were too bright. Gina switched them off and sat on the cold tiles in the dark. Her phone buzzed again.

Carl: You okay? Want me to come back? Carl: I miss you already. Carl: Hey?

At 10:04pm, her phone lit up with his name. She stared at it until it went dark again. Then she picked up the second time it rang.

“I’m sick,” she said.

“Like… fever?”

“No. Just nauseous.”

“Want me to come stay over? In case you need anything?”

She hesitated. “No. I’ll be fine.”

“Gina…”

She hung up. The tears came slow, but once they started, they didn’t stop.

By Wednesday, Gina was moving through fog. She submitted two articles, barely remembered writing them. She met a friend for coffee and laughed in the right places. But when she got home, she collapsed on her bed and stared at the ceiling.

Her brain played highlight reels on loop.

Carl tracing lazy circles on her thigh in Portugal. The scent of salt still clinging to their skin after swimming naked at night. The way he poured wine into chipped glasses, said she looked good in freckles, not makeup.

Carl laughing while they cooked dinner together in that shitty Airbnb—the gas burner sparking out every five minutes, her dancing barefoot on the cold tile to keep warm while he tried to fry aubergines. The music kept cutting out. They sang the lyrics wrong on purpose.

Carl saying, “I love this.” His arm around her waist. Her head against his chest. The moment had felt sacred.

Not I love you.

He never said you. Not once.

Her chest hurt with the weight of all the things she’d assumed. All the moments she thought were mutual. The looks. The in-jokes. The way he held her face like it meant something.

They weren’t.

And still, she missed him..

It was Carl’s birthday on Thursday. She stared at her phone. Typed out a text. Deleted it.

Instead, she opened Tinder.

His name was Luca. Tall, dark eyes, charming grin. Their chat was easy. Dirty. Fun.

They met for drinks at 8. By 9:45, they were in a cab back to his place.

He poured her wine. She didn’t want it. She wanted to feel something other than shame.

The kiss started with her against the wall. Her hands in his hair, her teeth grazing his lip. He laughed. She didn’t.

She pushed him down on the bed and climbed over him like she owned the night.

They didn’t talk much.

He touched her gently at first, like he was testing if she could still feel. She could. And it hurt. But in the good way.

Then something shifted. He looked at her like she was the centre of gravity. Every time she moved, he adjusted. Every sigh, every shiver, he answered with hands that weren’t trying to take, only offer.

He kissed her thighs like a promise. Took his time like he was memorising her, not just her body, but the small sounds she made when she forgot to guard herself.

“You’re beautiful,” he said once, not like a pickup line, but like an apology to every man who hadn’t said it before.

She felt seen. Not consumed, not handled. Seen.

When she came the first time, it caught her by surprise, sharp and tender and clean. The second time, she cried. Not loud. Just tears down her temples as he moved inside her like he was afraid to break her and desperate to know her at the same time.

He didn’t ask why.

He kissed her shoulder. Held her after. Called her a marvel.

They lay there for a long time, breathing into each other.

For the first time in days, she slept without dreaming of Carl. It wasn’t just the sex, it was the way Luca listened without asking. The way he touched her without assuming. The way he looked at her like she hadn’t ruined anything. Like she didn’t need to shrink or explain. She woke up next to him and didn’t feel owned, or obligated, or replaceable. Just human. Wanted. Enough.

By Saturday sunlight streamed through new curtains. Gina stretched. Her body felt different. Like something had been exorcised.

She brewed coffee. Played a new playlist. Her work inbox was full, and she liked it that way.

Carl hadn’t called since Saturday.

She hadn’t reached out either.

She looked at herself in the mirror that morning and saw someone else. Not healed. But harder. Clearer.

Maybe I wasn’t delusional. Maybe I just loved someone who didn’t love me back. That’s not crazy. That’s human.

She took another sip of coffee.

It tasted like freedom.

The knock startled her. She knew it was him before she opened the door.

Carl stood there, hoodie on, eyes tired.

“Where have you been?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Working. Living. Why?”

“You ghosted me.”

“You told me we weren’t anything. So I acted accordingly.”

He hesitated. “Where were you Thursday?”

“On a date.”

His mouth twitched. “Did you sleep with him?”

“Yes.”

He stared. “You’re such a fucking whore.”

She didn’t flinch. “You broke my heart, Carl. You don’t get to be mad now.”

“I told you the truth.”

“Exactly. And I believed you.”

He looked away. She stepped back. Left the door half open.

“You said you weren’t mine,” she said. “So I stopped being yours.”

Then she closed the door.

And breathed.

Different now. And finally, free.