But if I had to guess, if I had to put a name to whatever this was—this ache, this pull, this impossible tenderness—I think that’s what it must’ve felt like.
Maybe that’s why it hurts so much.
Because for a moment, I thought I’d found it. The kind of love that fills every quiet space and makes the world feel steady again. The kind of love that lets you breathe easier. Maybe that kind of love isn’t meant for me. Not yet. So now, I’ve got fences to mend, water to shift, hay to move.
Work that doesn’t ask questions or offer comfort. Work that just keeps going, even when you feel like stopping. And maybe if I keep moving long enough, I’ll forget what it felt like to be wanted. Maybe I’ll start remembering what it means to wantmyselfback again.
Screw him. Screw the ache. Screw this stupid, hopeful heart that should’ve known better.
I’m standing over the sink with a half-drunk cup of coffee gone cold as the message lights up my phone midmorning. My body aches, my stomach feels like someone’s wringing it out, and my brain hasn’t stopped looping over the last week. Handing the cheques over. The silence since.
Me:You home? Or free?
I stare at the screen for a while before pressing send. It’s pathetic, maybe, how much I need a familiar face right now. But between the cramps, the exhaustion, and the emptiness sitting in my chest like a stone, I can’t pretend to be strong today. Not when my period has hit—a cruel little reminder that my body’s out of sync with everything else in my life.
Her reply comes within seconds.
Zoe:Always, babe. Come over.
Zoe and Michael’s house is warm, cluttered in that comforting way that says it’s lived in—boots by the door, a motorbike magazine left open on the counter, and Sprinkles, sprawled in a patch of sun near the window.
Zoe’s in leggings and an oversized T-shirt, her hair piled on top of her head, when she greets me. Coffee mug in hand, and a knowing smile. “Where’s Michael?” I ask, toeing off my shoes.
“Oh, I told him I needed girl time.”
“And he willingly leftyou?” I scoff. “I don’t believe it.”
She grins. “Okay, well… I may have bribed him with dirty sex later.”
I groan, throwing my head back. “Oh my God. I did not need that visual.”
Zoe snorts into her coffee. “Please. You love my honesty.”
“Yeah, until it traumatises me.”
We settle onto the couch, legs tucked up, and for a while, it’s easy. Comfortable. But since I’ve known her, Zoe’s never been one for small talk, or talking in general, unless she knows something’s wrong. When her opinion is needed.
“Alright,” she says like clockwork, setting her mug down. “Spill it. What’s up?”
“Nothing important,” I say, waving it off like the lie it is. “Just needed to get out of my own head.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Olivia.”
I sink back into the couch with a sigh. “I’m not—okay, maybe I am. I don’t even know what I’m doing. I just wanted to talk. Or not. I don’t know.”
Zoe watches me carefully. “This about him?”
“Maybe. Among other things.”
She hums, almost gently. “Oh, babe… I knew this was coming.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, well, I didn’t. I thought I was handling it fine until my hormones decided to betray me.”
Zoe doesn’t laugh. She reaches over and squeezes my knee. “You’ve been through hell this week. You’re allowed to fall apart a little.”
I stare down at my hands.Maybe I should just go back to Sydney.
I spent three years there once—long enough to earn a business degree I’ve barely thought about since. Long enough to realise it wasn’t what I wanted. Sydney had everything people are supposed to want: opportunity, noise, constant motion. But I remember feeling small there. Lost in the rush, suffocated by ambition that didn’t feel like mine. I traded it for wide skies and dirt roads, for quiet mornings and something that almost resembled peace.
