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)
I nod, the thought of him making my heart ache.
“He does. He’s been so patient, so supportive, but... I don’t think he really understands how hard this has been for me. He’s used to it: the cameras, the gossip, the spotlight. It doesn’t faze him. But I feel like I’m being ripped apart from every angle, judged, criticised, and it’s too much. It’s suffocating.”
“And have you told him that?” she asks gently.
I shake my head, ashamed. “No. Well, I mean, I’ve tried, but I don’t think I’ve been clear. I didn’t want him to think that I was weak, or being overdramatic. It’s not like I’m an A-List celebrity or something. But now... now I’ve just run away.”
Mum lets out a soft sigh, her thumb brushing over the back of my hand.
“You’re not running away, love. You’re taking a step back to breathe, and that’s okay. Sometimes you need space to figure things out, to see things clearly. And if Santi cares about you the way I think he does, he’ll understand that.”
Her words chip away at the guilt, but it’s still there, a dull ache in the back of my mind.
“What if he doesn’t understand? What if... what if this ruins everything?”
Her gaze softens, and she reaches out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
“Olivia, the right person will never hold it against you for needing time to take care of yourself. And if he’s not the right person, well... you’re better off knowing now, aren’t you?”
The thought terrifies me, but there’s a truth in her words that I can’t ignore.
I nod slowly, her reassurance settling in, and for the first time in days, the tightness in my chest eases just a little.
I glance at my phone, still turned off and buried in my bag. I sip my tea, the warmth spreading through me, and part of me wants to turn it on to see if Santi has replied to my vague message.
But the thought of facing the world - or him - feels like too much right now.
“I’m not ready,” I admit softly, almost to myself.
“That’s alright,” Mum says, her voice steady. “You don’t have to be ready yet. You just got here. Take your time - the rest of the world can, and will, wait.”
I nod again, her words a balm to my frayed nerves. As I sit there, wrapped in the safety of my mother’s presence, I realise she’s right.
The rest of the world can wait.
For now, I just need to find myself again.
∞∞∞
The familiar scent of soy sauce, garlic, and crispy spring rolls fills the air as I step into Laura’s apartment, balancing a bag of Chinese takeout in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
It’s almost like déjà vu, and the memory of that January night when everything first unraveled rushes back to me.
Laura grins as she opens the door, her hair tied up in a messy bun and her face free of makeup. She’s wearing an oversized sweater, some dark bicycle shorts and a pair of fluffy socks.
“Liv!” she exclaims, pulling me into a hug that’s so tight I nearly drop the food. “Look at you, you beautiful girl. I can’t believe you’ve spared some time from your glamorous life as a Spanish rugby WAG to come and see me.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. I smile despite the heavy cloud that’s settled over me. “I’m not a WAG.”
“Sure, sure,” she teases, stepping back and giving me a mock-serious once-over. “You don’t look like one, at least. No fake tan, no hair extensions... You didn’t even bring a designer handbag to carry the Chinese. I’m half disappointed, half impressed.”
I can’t help but laugh, some of the tension in my shoulders easing.
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m still the same old Liv.”
She grabs the takeout bag and the wine.
“Good. I like you better that way. Now, get in here and tell me everything while I grab plates. We’re not holding back tonight.”
The living room is just as cosy as I remember, with its mismatched furniture, fairy lights strung up along the wall and a crochet blanket draped over the sofa that I’ve spent countless nights curled up under.
Laura comes back with full plates of food and filled glasses of wine, gesturing dramatically for me to sit.
“Alright, spill. And don’t even think about holding out on me this time.”
I sigh as I settle onto the sofa, pulling a cushion onto my lap. “I don’t even know where to start, honestly. It’s just…these last few weeks have been a lot.”
Her eyes soften, but she still waves a chopstick at me like a wand.
“I figured that when you texted me saying you were coming home. Is this about that article? Because if it is, I will personally fly to Spain and shove a spring roll up that reporter’s nose.”