Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
He opens his arms, clearly expecting me to dive over the table and swoon into them.
Instead, I take a long sip of my milkshake and pray for spontaneous combustion.
The most I can do is force a smile, but I know I’m not that good of an actress. He surely must be able to sense how painful this is for me from my body language alone.
"Wow. That was… unexpected."
"See?” he grins. “I know you say you're not romantic, but deep down, I think you love this stuff."
I look at him, my expression completely deadpan.
Because I deeply, passionately do not, and I dread to think what might have given him that impression.
* * *
When the bill arrives, Noah makes a grand show of paying, stretching back in his chair like he’s just done something incredibly impressive.
"So." He slides his wallet back into his pocket. "I was thinking we could talk about when I’m going to meet your parents."
My stomach drops.
"Oh. Uh. I don’t know," I say quickly. "They’re really busy. Like, a lot. Plus, they'll be in Florida for a while."
"Come on, Poppy,” he laughs. “It’s been nine months. I think it’s time we made this official."
"Official?” I frown. “We’re already official."
"No, I mean properly official. Family official." His smile softens. "Your mum sounds so fun. And your dad - he’s probably protective, right? I can’t wait to charm him."
My father is a retired barrister who once made a builder cry because the skirting boards weren’t aligned properly. Twenty-three year old Noah is not going to charm him.
"We’re… not quite there yet," I say carefully, choosing each word like I’m defusing a bomb.
His smile falters. "Not there yet?"
"I - yeah. I feel like things are moving… kind of fast."
"Fast?” His expression clouds. “We’ve been together for almost a year."
"Yeah, but -"
He laughs suddenly, the sound sharp, and a little too loud.
"You’re so funny, Poppy,” he grins. “Always so flighty."
I freeze.
“Flighty?” I repeat, my frown burrowing deeper.
Noah doesn’t seem to notice the shift in my tone, or my expression. He just chuckles, shaking his head and looking at me like I’m an adorable, amusing little thing that he’s indulging.
"Yeah. Like a little bird. Scared to settle down,” he says. “But don’t worry, petal. I’ll ground you."
Something in me snaps.
I sit up straighter, blinking at him, my breath catching in my throat.
Ground me?
Like I’m some lost, clueless thing that needs keeping?
Like I’m aimlessly fluttering around, waiting for him to give me a purpose?
"I'm not a bird, Noah," I say sharply, my voice cutting through the warm hum of the restaurant. "And I don’t need grounding."
His smile falters. "Poppy -"
I don’t know exactly what does it.
Maybe it’s the way he speaks about me like I’m something to be managed; opinionated but somehow gentle with it, disguising it.
Maybe it’s the playlist, the dancing in the street, the little petal comments.
Maybe it’s the way he always assumes he knows me, when, deep down, I don’t think he does at all.
Or maybe it’s something more terrifying.
Maybe it’s the way I look at him and realise that I don’t see my future. Not with him. Not anymore.
I suck in a breath, my heart hammering, and before I can second-guess myself, the words tumble out.
"I can’t do this."
"What?"
"You. Me. This relationship,” I say. “I just - I can’t do it anymore."
Noah’s face falls.
"Poppy," he breathes, his hand twitching on the table like he wants to reach for mine but thinks better of it. "What are you saying?"
I exhale shakily, the weight of my words finally settling in my chest.
I know what I’m saying. And once they’re out, I know -
“It’s over.”
* * *
Once I’m outside, I transfer him half of the bill and take a deep breath.
The guilt still lingers, but so does the relief.
And for the first time in a long time -
I feel free.
Chapter Three
Poppy
My phone buzzes.
Then again.
And again.
I groan and roll over in bed, blinking at the screen through narrowed eyes.
The group chat is lighting up like a bonfire, my three best friends waiting impatiently for the post-breakup debrief.
Leah: SO???
How’d it go??? Did you do it??
Are we finally free from Noah’s Shakespearean love sonnets??
Em: Don’t leave us in suspense, woman!!
Jas: If she’s not replying, I fear the worst.
Maybe she’s still being serenaded and can’t physically escape.
A short, sharp laugh escapes me. I wouldn’t put it past Noah to turn up outside my apartment with a speaker held above his head, blasting one of the songs from the playlist.
I put the girls out of their misery.
Me: It’s done. It’s over.
I hesitate for a second before typing out two more words.
Me: I’m free.
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen as I let it sink in.
Free.
The word lingers in my mind, feeling both weightless and strange.
Like a gust of fresh air I hadn’t realised I needed.
Yet even as the tension eases from my shoulders, even as the weight lifts from my chest, the guilt is already creeping in, gnawing at me like a hungry raccoon.