What time is it?
I must have passed out completely last night, plunged into something dark and bottomless.
The remainders of my dream clings to me like smoke, impossible to ignore. My limbs feel heavy and reluctant to move, but I shift against the bedding anyway, trying to shake the lingering dread. Fingers fumbling toward my back pocket, I search blindly until they close around my phone. The cool glass is grounding, smooth beneath my touch. I tug it free, and as the screen lights up, my newest screensaver greets me with an inspirational quote staring back like a quiet reminder;
"It’s never too late to become who you want to be. I hope you live a life that you’re proud of, and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start over." – F. Scott Fitzgerald.
The words settle over me, wrapping around the edges of my thoughts. They aren’t just encouragement, they’re permission. A reassurance that starting over isn’t failure; it’s a choice. I set them as my screensaver the day I let Sam hurt me for the last time.
That day, I had gone out to grab a few personal things from the shop, trying to navigate the aisles for the right sanitary products, something so mundane yet necessary. Apparently, I took too long, because in his eyes, having a period wasn’t a valid reason to leave the house that day. My body’s basic needs weren’t an acceptable excuse.
I had come across the quote weeks before, back when the first thoughts of escape had quietly begun to form. When I’d started realising that I needed out. I had saved it in my Instagram saved items—a safe place he hadn’t thought to monitor. And then, that day, when blood leaked from not just my uterus, but also my nose and the reality of what I was enduring was written in pain across my skin, I knew.It was now or never.
The words I had saved weren’t just pretty and wise, they were a whisper I had ignored for too long. A quiet nudge toward the life I needed to chase. The life I deserved.
With a sluggish swipe, I check the time. It’s early. Too early. That time of day where you're afraid to make a noise in the hushed stillness ... where it seems like the rest of the world lingers in a spellbinding sleep that only you have the power to break.
There’s so much I need to do today, but instead of feeling overwhelmed, I feel excited as I push the memory of my dream to the back of my mind.
I need to find a car. Something reliable and something that’ll give me the freedom to explore this new place properly. There’s the building that awaits—my soon-to-be shop. There’s my office to set up, my business tostart promoting … I want people to know what’s coming, to feel the buzz of something fresh unfolding.
Then there’s the little things too. The things that will make this transition real, like groceries, doctors, dentists. Setting up the basics of life in a new country so that everything flows smoothly. And, of course, the bookshop still needs a name, something perfect, something that fits the dream I’m building. And my Bookstagram! There are so many ideas swirling in my head, and content to create, posts to share. It’s another way to connect and to breathe life into this passion of mine. It’s a lot, but it’s good. It’s thrilling. Because every task, every little box I tick off, gets me closer to this new life.
Well, I guess there’s no time like the present.
I drop my phone onto the bed beside me, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and stretching out the stiffness of the night. Time to get moving. First things first, shower. A fresh start deserves a fresh me, free of the travel grime from yesterday.
The shower is pure heaven.
Water cascades down my back like a warm waterfall, washing away fatigue and leaving nothing but clarity in its wake. Ribbons of white foam glide down my front as I rinse the shampoo from my hair, the familiar scent of vanilla and coconut permeating the steam. I breathe it in, letting my mind turn over the tasks ahead.
Clean and refreshed, I brush my teeth and comb through my damp hair, deciding to let it air dry.
Then, wrapped in my bathrobe, I make my way to the kitchen. I pluck a chilled bottle of water from the fridge that’s thankfully stocked with a few essentials—a small gesture of kindness I hadn’t expected—and I mentallytick off a growing list of things I need to buy today to properly stock my kitchen. Groceries, toiletries, everyday staples. I also need to figure out transportation, where to find a taxi, whether walking is an option, and, of course, sorting out a car, one of the bigger items on my long to-do list.
Through the back windows, the early light stretches across the landscape, promising a beautiful day. A soft breeze ripples through the plants outside, so I grab a throw from the sofa, tuck it under my arm, tighten the robe around me, and step onto the patio, my book in one hand and my drink in the other. I need to finish this one and get a review posted on my account. It’s a small but productive start to the morning. A gentle nudge in the right direction.
Settling into the swing seat, I cocoon myself in the throw, wrapping it snugly around my shoulders and letting it drape down my back so that when I sit, it cushions beneath me. Then I sink into the quiet, ready to lose myself in the pages of my book.
But before I even manage to flip to the right page, something bursts through the flower bed in a blur of fur and motion. My heart leaps for a split second, alarm sharpening the edges of my thoughts. Then I see it, a wagging tail, bright mismatched eyes, one brown, one blue, and a lolling tongue that practically grins at me. A friendly face. The border collie bounds up to me, all chestnut brown and white softness, nudging my hands as if demanding attention. And of course I oblige, fingers sinking into his thick coat, earning me a satisfied wag of his tail.
A name gleams from the tag on his collar.
"Buddy!"
A familiar deep, gruff voice cuts through the air as the back door to the cottage next to mine swings open.
Ford steps out, his stance casual and his expression easy. If you didn’t know where to look, you might miss the edge of tiredness and the hint of stress lingering around his eyes.
"Buddy, come."
He whistles lightly, and the dog’s ears prick up, tail wagging eagerly at the sound of his name. Ford scans his garden, then lets his gaze trail toward mine. Then his eyes drop, catching Buddy curled at my feet. His gaze flicks to the dog, then drift upward, skimming my legs and pausing at the bare stretch of skin. It’s not leering, it’s curious, like he didn’t mean to look but couldn’t stop himself. In a flash, a flicker of something crosses his face, his jaw tightens, and his eyes widen, just slightly, like a kid caught red-handed in the biscuit tin. His gaze locks on mine and then his face shutters. Fast. It’s completely unreadable. I feel the shift immediately. There’s a charged pause.
Suddenly, his posture stiffens. He hesitates, then pushes the door open wider with a jerky motion.
“Buddy,” he says, voice rigid at first, then faltering. “Inside.”
My brows pull together at the change, not just in his posture, but in his tone. There’s a rasp there, something tight and uncontrolled.
