One DM. That's all it took to turn my five-week working stint in Phuket into a rom-com directed by Satan. He lived in Turkey. Let's call him Istanbul Guy. I lived in delusion (Australia).
He messaged and FaceTimed constantly for a week. For someone who struggled with anxiety, that consistent attention felt like safety.
"I like video calling," he said. "It feels like you're right next to me."
He'd previously lived in Phuket and worked as a professional fighter, so when I posted a silly Instagram story about a Turkish coach awkwardly hitting me, Istanbul Guy didn't laugh. He video-called me.
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"If he's a Turkish coach in Phuket, I probably know him. If it's [name], I'm friends with him. We even lived together," he said.
My face went poker. Oh, sh*t.
My Instagram story wasn't about his friend, but I'd already met him. A few times. Instagram confirmed my sins: tagged together, Istanbul Guy and the same man I'd kissed. Repeatedly.
Then came the ultimatum: "I don't want you talking to other guys. Choose. Them or me."
The choice felt obvious. Istanbul Guy was already planning our future in Australia. It felt reckless and romantic in equal measure.
So, I gambled it all, because if you can't trust a stranger, who can you trust? I conveniently forgot to mention the overlap.
Then I had two unexpected weeks off — go home, stay put in Phuket or fly to Turkey. He told me to come to Turkey, he'd "look after me," I'd "never feel alone here."
In hindsight, he really meant: "I'll be around for two business days, max."
I booked my flight. Reckless? Sure. But it felt like now or never. I didn't want to keep wondering what if.
Playing boyfriend and girlfriend.
On my first day in Istanbul, we sat on a bench in Gülhane Park. He pointed out the birds swooping overhead and kissed my cheek. "I'm happy you're here."
He played the boyfriend part perfectly — living together, holding my hand through crowded streets, kissing me across restaurant tables, falling asleep tangled together. I mistook consistency for commitment.
The next morning, he woke up and smiled. "I like you."
I melted. As in, physically folded into his chest like a weighted blanket had sedated me.
By lunchtime, he was rolling his eyes because I didn't know where to go. Sir, you live here.
By night, everything tilted. We were supposed to go to his hometown together on day four. Suddenly, he "had to" leave the next day for work, and I could take a six-hour bus alone to meet him later. Love that for me.
He suddenly didn't seem to care about me at all.
Something soured…
The next morning, he kissed me good morning and promised he wanted to "figure us out."
That afternoon, mid-sex, he stopped cold.
"I feel nothing for you. No future," he said.
Imagine being dumped mid-pump like a kebab spit snapping in half. An abrupt end to d*ck diplomacy.
And then? I was alone in Istanbul for six days. Public panic attacks kept popping up like pop-ups you can't close.
Before Istanbul.
For you to understand what happens next, I need to rewind to just before I met Instanbul Guy.
Because, before Istanbul Guy came along to ruin my week, there was his friend. (Even though, at the time, I had no idea they were friends).
While I was still in Phuket, I was walking alone in the humid night (my overthinking hobby) when he appeared with a group of mates. He pulled out his phone and showed me The Matrix scene.
"That's you," he said. "The woman in the red dress."
In The Matrix, the woman in red isn't real, a lure designed to distract Neo while danger creeps up behind him. I stood, half-smiling. He was tall, handsome, a professional fighter — the kind of stranger who makes your chest register a small, dangerous interest.
We walked for an hour until he left for a Mortal Kombat PlayStation tournament (to win weed, obviously).
"I don't want to leave you." He kissed the top of my head like we were already something.
The messages followed:
"You attract me so much, I want you hot and horny."
Sir. I literally met you on a walk.
He disappeared for days, pinging me with contradictions: "We can be friends." Hours later: "I want you."
Sometimes we talked about life: his friends who'd died, his sister's illness, the bills he helped pay.
Other times, we agreed the Game of Thrones TV show beat the books. He kept trying to fast-forward to the R-rated version. When I said, "Let's wait," he declared, "I've lost interest." Seven days later? "How are you?" Like nothing had happened.
After Istanbul.
So, after my disastrous relationship with Instabul guy ended, I limped back into Phuket. I was there for a quick stopover before flying home to Australia.
I was exhausted and still haunted by Istanbul Guy's cruel words: "With my ex, something stirred inside me. With you, my feelings decreased every day to nothing."
I wandered down Fitness Street — one-kilometre strip of Muay Thai gyms where bumping into people is normal. And there he was: Instanbul guy's friend.
His face lit up. He let his mate keep walking so he could stop, talk and hug me long. "The woman in red."
"My sun and stars," I cupped his face.
"Can I come over to hug and sleep?"
Sure, I said.
I asked ChatGPT if it was a good idea. My AI therapist said no.
I told my psychologist days later. He sighed: "If you'd called me beforehand, I'd have told you to lock the door."
But I was drowning, desperate for a night off from the numbness. Istanbul Guy had disappeared faster than my faith in men. And the irony wasn't lost on me.
The friend and I didn't just hug.
I'd braced for chaos, but he brushed my hair back and curled around me. His chest pressed against my back, his breath steady and anchoring, until my body let go for the first time in a week. Still, I woke every few hours, muscle memory from being left behind.
At one point, when we both stirred, I said, "I keep checking you're still here so I can go back to sleep."
Eyes still closed, his lips tilted up. "Where else would I be?"
The morning after.
He stayed until 3pm. I messaged two of my girlfriends in our group chat telling them exactly what happened with Instabul Guys' friend.
Friend One: "NICEEEE."
Friend Two: "Don't feel bad. That jerk left you crying alone in a foreign country."
My girls weren't horrified. They were high-fiving me through the screen.
The friend wasn't even a proper rebound. I liked him. A lot. But also, I wanted to chloroform the echo of Istanbul Guy's Oscar-worthy bullsh*t: "Our first date will be the last for the both of us."
And he wasn't only sex. That's the scam: oxytocin forges a love letter your heart never signed. Tenderness felt like truth.
It wasn't me. Before Instanbul guy I'd only been with two men in my life, and I hadn't had sex in a year. Then, thanks to Instanbul guy and his friend, my partner count doubled in a week. I was tangled in a three-way story neither of them knew existed.
Simulation failed.
Maybe I chose Istanbul Guy because he gave me hope. Maybe I chased the unreliable friend because chaos beats emptiness. Heartbreak doesn't always send you hunting for love. Sometimes it sends you into the arms of the nearest bad idea.
And the woman in the red dress? She was never real, a program coded to make someone forget the danger coming for them. That night, I became her. I distracted myself with borrowed warmth, the illusion that someone wanted me to stay. He even said he wished I lived in Phuket.
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He still messages, glitchy as ever, flickering in and out of my inbox like Agent Smith in The Matrix.
I failed the simulation. But at least I failed it spectacularly.
Find out more about Liv, Instagram @liv_au or my website www.livarnold.com
Feature image: Supplied.
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