16. 16
Born Without A Heart - Faouzia
T he sunlight creeping through the curtains is too bright and too warm.
Entirely too cheerful for the current state of my head. I groan into my pillow, rolling onto my side, kicking one leg free of the sheet. My arm flops into the space beside me, and I watch the faint outline of trees swaying beyond the gauzy curtain.
I didn’t sleep well.
Well, technically, I didn’t sleep at all. Not after the race. Not after Michael walked me to my car and tossed out something I can’t shake.
I think she was meant to find you.
Who even says that? Who stands there under a streetlight, all calm and unruffled, and just drops something like that—like it’s not going to sit in my chest and make itself comfortable?
Michael Price , apparently.
And of course, I just nodded like a complete idiot, muttered a half-hearted “Goodnight,” and bolted for my car before I did something stupid—like ask him what the hell he meant.
I don’t want to care that he walked me to my car.
I don’t want to care that he noticed I hadn’t eaten, or that he’d been watching me all night like I was worth the trouble.
Because caring feels wrong. Skewed.
My stomach’s been twisted into knots ever since. Tighter with guilt, knotted with anxiety, but buried under all of it—under the mess I’ve been trying not to dig into—is what I’ve avoided naming until now.
Fear.
That’s what it is.
And it feels wrong. Not in the moral sense, not like I’m breaking some sacred vow already shattered, but in that quiet, festering way that sits low in your gut and refuses to leave. The kind that makes your stomach churn, that pricks at your skin with guilt. And beneath all the guilt?
I’m fucking scared.
And that pisses me off more than anything. Because I get why I’m scared. God, do I get it. Years of walking on eggshells will do that to you. But I hate that this is who I am now. I hate that my first instinct is to flinch instead of lean in.
I thought I had locked that emotion up and swallowed the key.
Yet here I am, sprawled in a too-big bed in a town that barely feels like home anymore, scared of a man who hasn’t actually done a damn thing wrong.
Scared because some stupid part of me wants to trust him.
Wants to believe he means it. Which is pathetic.
So no, I don’t want to care.
But I do.
And that’s the problem.
I roll onto my other side, the sheet tightening like it’s got a grudge, my chest already heavy with the memory of last night. Because what’s been haunting me isn’t the race. It isn’t Michael.
It’s what happened after. I came home. Fed the kitten. Sat on the bed with my knees pulled to my chest, still in my outfit, still wearing the same makeup I’d swiped on with shaky hands that afternoon. And then—for the first time since leaving Sydney—I cried.
Not the quiet, dignified kind of crying. Not a single tear down the cheek, cinematic sort of cry. No, this was ugly. Loud. The kind of crying that steals your breath and hollows you out.
The kind you don’t come back from the same.
The kitten—still too small, still unsure of me—climbed into my lap anyway. Curled into a tight ball, paws pressing rhythmically against my thigh, a low purr vibrating into my skin. She didn’t shy away. Didn’t spook. Just… stayed.
Like I was safe. Like I could be comfort for her.
Comfort . Jesus, I don’t even know what that’s supposed to feel like anymore.
I’m not used to giving it. Definitely not used to getting it.
But there she was—this little scrap of fur—deciding I was worth curling up against. Trusting me with her warmth, her stillness.
And somehow, that made the tears come harder.
Now, the sunlight streams through the window, the air sharp with the bite of early autumn, and I look like hell. Puffy eyes. Red nose. Lips cracked, and I can feel my mascara clinging stubbornly to the corners of my lashes.
Begrudgingly, I drag myself to my suitcase, which is still half-unpacked on the floor. A few things made it onto hangers, but most are crumpled in drawers or draped over the back of a chair. It’s been weeks, and I still haven’t fully unpacked, like I’m still pretending this is temporary.
Crouching, I dig for my skincare. My armour. “Shit.”
Nothing. No moisturiser. No cleanser. No under-eye serum that swears it can erase a night like last night. Of course, I didn’t bring it. I barely brought anything when I left Sydney. Just two bags, packed in a panic before my courage ran out.
I slam the suitcase shut harder than I need to and head for the sink. Cold water will have to do. I splash my face until my skin stings, then look up. The woman in the mirror is pale. Blotchy. Hollow in places I used to feel full.
“This is fine,” I mutter. “Today will be fine. You’re fine.”
It’s not a pep talk so much as a threat, but I say it again, and again, patting my face dry. Halfway through the next round, I stop. Because when did I start doing this?
When did I become the kind of person who talks to herself in the mirror like she’s trying to talk herself off a ledge? That’s not me. Never has been.
I survive. I push forward. I don’t sit here trying to convince myself I’m okay. But the woman staring back at me… she doesn’t look convinced. She doesn’t look like she knows who she is anymore. And maybe she doesn’t. Not here. Not yet .
By midday, I’m upright. Barely. I’ve swapped my pyjamas for leggings and an oversized jumper that still smells faintly of airport and unfamiliar detergent.
My hair’s pulled into a bun so tight it aches, and I’m poking around the fridge for something edible when my phone buzzes.
Not once, not twice, but three times. What the fuck?
I look over, and dread fills me instantly.
Unknown number : If you think I’m going to sign these papers, you’re wrong.
Unknown number : The court will never approve it because we haven’t been separated for 12 months.
Unknown number : So good try.
He knows I blocked him, so he’s gone out of his way to get a new number. Oh, fuck off. My chest tightens, but it’s not fear that blooms. It’s fire. A slow, bitter burn that licks up the back of my throat. We haven’t been separated for 12 months?
A laugh escapes me because what an absolute joke. What he has failed to realise is that we have been living separate lives since last January—and it’s now March.
Separate beds. Separate bank accounts. Separate lives. Hell, even when Liam was still technically under the same roof as me, he was barely there—just another person drifting through.
A grunt for a greeting, a gym bag dumped by the door, taking up oxygen and giving nothing back. Well… except for the abuse. And the cheating.
Nine months ago, I opened my own bank account. Cut off every shared password. Moved my income. Told the bank to scrub any contact details that tied back to him. He never noticed. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care.
On my phone, there’s an album called Grounds —screenshots that map the slow rot of what we used to be. Short, clipped texts. Petty arguments. Threats. Empty apologies. Entire days where the only words we exchanged were What’s for dinner?
And the cheating. God, the bastard had been cheating on me for months.
Years.
It was always there—lurking in the late nights, the guarded phone, the subtle change in cologne.
The things I noticed but chose not to dwell on.
Because if I did, I’d have to admit what I already knew.
And I wasn’t ready for that. It was the little things I ignored.
The intuition I silenced. Because facing it— truly facing it —meant burning down everything I’d built around me.
And I wasn’t ready to set fire to the life I’d convinced myself was still worth salvaging.
Two years ago, one of the wives in his circle messaged me. Said her husband let slip that Liam was “getting close” to a friend of theirs. She didn’t say who, but she didn’t need to. I didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just thanked her and filed it away with everything else that hurt too much to hold.
After that, she never looked at me the same. Always with this quiet pity, like she was waiting for me to shatter over brunch. Like I was the sad story she told herself when her own marriage hit a rough patch. And I hated that most of all.
So why didn’t I leave?
Why stay?
Because back then, he was still manageable. Still charming when he wanted to be. Still smiling in public, still calling me sweetheart when it suited him. Infuriating, sure, but not dangerous. Not yet.
I told myself it was easier that way. That if I let the small things slide, we’d level out eventually. That I was keeping the peace, being… reasonable.
It was weak of me. I know that now. And I’ve never been a weak woman—not really.
But I wasn’t ready to throw everything away.
My life in Sydney. My friends. The comfort of it all.
And it wasn’t his money funding that life—no, I built it.
I earned the promotions, the respect, the expensive apartment.
I decorated it. I bought the Hermès throw cushions he used to brush crumbs off his jeans.
But things shifted the year after. Liam changed. Or maybe I did.
He became quicker to snap. Angrier. Every little thing was suddenly wrong—the toast too crisp, the towels folded “wrong,” me not satisfying him enough in bed. The air at home got heavier, thick with something that felt like it was always waiting to explode.
And me? I kept whispering the same line to myself like it was gospel.
Things will get better.
It’ll pass.
Just wait it out.
But it didn’t pass. It got worse. You’d think the final straw would’ve been the control, the aggression, the gaslighting, the years of quiet erosion that wore me down to nothing. But no. It wasn’t that. It was walking into our bedroom and finding him screwing someone else in our bed.
The bed I paid for.