Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
“You do have to figure out what you want, Liv.”
Her voice echoes in my mind, cutting through the jumble of emotions that I’ve been trying so hard to suppress.
As much as I want to stay in this bubble, hiding from the world, I know that she’s right. I can’t do it forever.
I can’t keep running.
But what do I even want?
By the time I reach my mum’s house, my feet feel heavy, and my heart feels even heavier. I let myself in quietly, the faint creak of the door echoing in the stillness of the house.
My mum’s already gone to bed, but there’s a note waiting for me on the kitchen counter, her familiar handwriting neat and comforting.
There’s some leftover shepherd’s pie in the fridge if you’re hungry. Love you, Mum.
I smile faintly, folding the note and slipping it into my pocket. It’s silly, but I don’t want to throw it away.
I open the fridge and see the foil-covered dish on the middle shelf. Even though I’m not particularly hungry, I am rather drunk, so I grab a fork and take a bite straight from the container. The familiar flavors of home settle in my stomach, but they do little to soothe the restless energy buzzing under my skin.
The house is quiet, save for the faint creaks of the floorboards above me as Mum shifts in her sleep. The warmth of home wraps around me, from the worn tablecloth on the kitchen table to the faint scent of lavender that lingers in the air.
I should feel safe here, comforted by the familiarity of the place I grew up in.
But I don’t.
Instead, there’s an unsettled feeling gnawing at the edges of my mind, refusing to be ignored.
What do I want?
The question echoes over and over, relentless in its simplicity and its weight.
I take the shepherd’s pie back to the counter, covering it neatly before placing it back in the fridge. My hands linger on the door handle for a moment, gripping it tighter than necessary, as if grounding myself physically might stop my mind from spiraling.
I glance at the clock on the microwave. 1:32 a.m. It’s late, and I’m exhausted, but my thoughts won’t let me rest.
As I climb the stairs to my old bedroom, each step feels heavier than the last. The walls are still the same pale yellow they were when I was a teenager, the faded posters of bands I used to love still tacked up beside my mirror.
Even my old books are stacked neatly on the shelves, their spines worn from years of rereading.
Everything is just as I left it, but I’m not the same.
I sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingers over the soft quilt my mum made for me years ago. My chest tightens as I think about how lost I feel, like a ship without an anchor.
What do I want?
I don’t have an answer yet, but as I finally lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, one thing is clear: hiding away and avoiding the world isn’t the solution.
I need to figure it out.
Because the longer I stay here, cocooned in the safety of home, the more it will undoubtedly feel like I’m losing myself - and that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.
Chapter Thirty-Three
"Olivia? You have a visitor."
My mother’s voice carries up the stairs, and I grumble in complaint, pulling the pillow over my face.
My head is pounding; a not-so-gentle reminder of last night’s wine-fueled heart-to-heart with Laura, and my body feels like it’s been weighed down with bricks.
The idea of leaving the cocoon of my bed is about as appealing as tackling a Monday morning exam unprepared.
“Olivia!” Mum calls again, her tone sharper this time.
“Coming,” I croak, my voice muffled by the pillow.
I push myself upright, wincing as the light streaming through the window hits me square in the face. Still dressed in the oversized pyjama shirt I borrowed from Mum - one of Dad’s old ones, soft from years of wear - I shuffle over to the door, tugging my hair into a haphazard bun as I go.
Who on earth would be visiting me here?
I trudge downstairs, my bare feet slapping against the cool wood floors. The smell of brewing tea wafts through the air, and for a brief moment, I wonder if Mum’s making me a cup. It will certainly help with the hangover.
But when I round the corner into the hallway, my heart nearly stops.
Santi.
He looks... well, he looks like him.
Perfectly put together in dark jeans and a fitted black T-shirt that hugs his chest and arms just right. His green eyes are sharper than ever, their intensity softened slightly by the small, tentative smile on his lips. His dark hair is tousled as though he’s run his hand through it a few too many times, and he’s holding a takeaway cup of coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other.