Chapter Two
Poppy
I ’m standing in front of my mirror, debating whether or not to stab myself in the eye with an eyeliner pencil.
It's been four days since I last saw Noah, and against all odds, I’ve started to feel… hopeful .
Maybe I’ve been overreacting. Maybe I’ve been too harsh.
Time apart has that effect. Distance seems to soften the cringe and make me forget the full-body shudders and the playlist of doom.
Because the truth is, Noah is wonderful. He’s kind, thoughtful and attentive. He remembers how I like my coffee, never complains when I drag him into fabric stores, and he listens - genuinely listens - when I talk about my sketches and designs.
I know that there are so many girls who would kill for a guy like him.
So why can’t I just feel what I’m supposed to feel?
I shake off the doubt and focus on getting ready. Wide-leg black trousers, a simple white tank top, and my hair in a half-up, half-down ponytail. My usual.
I swipe on some bold pink lipstick, because if I’m going to have an existential crisis about my love life, I’ll at least look good doing it.
Just as I turn away from the mirror, my phone buzzes.
Can’t wait to see you tonight, my little petal.
I hope you’re ready for the best date of your life!
I wince.
There it is. The same feeling I always get when I read his texts - the small, creeping discomfort that coils in my stomach.
I force myself to smile, toss my phone into my bag, and grab my coat.
It’s fine. I just need to get through tonight.
And maybe, just maybe, it’ll remind me of all the reasons why this should work.
* * *
The restaurant Noah has chosen is a cozy Italian place in South Kensington, one that I actually suggested months ago. Back then, he dismissed it as too basic. Apparently, some podcaster he listens to has now declared it the perfect date spot, and alas, here we are.
He’s already at a table near the window when I arrive, waving with both hands like I might miss him otherwise.
“Poppy!” he calls, loud enough for half the restaurant to glance up. “Over here!”
I squeeze out a smile, my cheeks warming, and make my way over.
The moment I sit down, he takes both of my hands in his.
"Wow," he says, eyes wide. "You look really lovely. Like... like a goddess dipped in moonlight. "
"Oh - thanks,” I say.
I force myself to hold the moment, to enjoy the compliment, and then I clock the pin on his lapel.
A little silver badge that reads Love Wins .
Interesting choice, but - I mean, okay. Sure .
"So, what are we ordering? Pasta? Pizza?” he asks as he releases my hands and sits back, grinning. “You do love your carbs, don’t you?"
The statement isn’t mean-spirited, exactly, but something about the way he says it - like it’s an adorable quirk, like I’m a greedy little kid stuffing my face with spaghetti - makes my jaw twitch.
"Uh... yeah ," I respond after a slightly awkward beat, forcing a small laugh. "I guess I do."
The waiter arrives - a guy around our age with dark curls and a dimpled smile. His eyes flick to me as he takes our orders, and I sit up a little straighter.
Noah notices.
“I’ll have the chicken salad,” he says, voice suddenly louder. “Got to stay lean, you know? Formula One drivers aren’t the only ones who need to stay sharp - especially when they’ve got a girl like this on their arm.”
He gestures towards me with a wink, and I give him a sideways look.
Noah doesn’t even drive . Like, not even a provisional license.
The closest he’s been to Formula One is probably a dodgy racing game on his phone.
But my best friends are currently in Monaco, waiting to watch the Grand Prix.
He knows that I had been invited, though he’d made it pretty clear he didn’t approve of the idea. The champagne, the dresses, the unapologetic fun -
So is this supposed to be a little dig, or something?
I shake the thought away and opt for the carbonara. I figure why the hell not to something sweet, too.
But the moment the waiter leaves, Noah raises an eyebrow at me and eyes me like I’ve committed some dietary betrayal.
"A milkshake ?" he asks.
"What?" I frown. "I like milkshakes."
"I can’t remember the last time I had a milkshake. I must have been, like, ten. You’re such a kid sometimes,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Plus, pasta and a milkshake? You're going to crash from all that sugar later."
My grip tightens around the menu, but I don’t say anything.
Because Noah is a nice guy. Really.
He’s just a little…
Opinionated .
* * *
By the time the food arrives, I’ve sat through an entire monologue about Noah’s latest business idea: personalised poems for couples .
"And we could have different packages," he says, gesturing with his fork. "For example, the Platinum Package could include a handwritten poem delivered by singing telegram. Imagine it: a guy showing up to his girlfriend's work to serenade her with a personalised sonnet. Romantic, right?"
I stab at my pasta. "Or a fast track to a restraining order," I mutter .
He doesn’t hear me. Or maybe he just chooses not to.
Instead, he grins .
"Which, speaking of serenades…"
Oh no.
"I have a little surprise for you," he says, winking.
No no no -
"Noah." I swallow. "What did you do?"
Panic prickles up my spine, but instead of answering, he throws one arm dramatically into the air like he’s hailing a cab.
“Maestro!” he calls, actually clicking his fingers like this is a Vegas lounge act; and for some strange reason, a man with a guitar materialises beside our table.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" he announces, his voice deep and dramatic as he calls the attention of the restaurant towards him. "Tonight, we have a special serenade, dedicated from Noah to his lovely girlfriend, Poppy. This one’s just for you, little petal ."
The guitarist starts strumming, and I swear that my soul tries to flee my body.
And then -
Oh god.
Noah starts singing along.
Loudly. Off-key.
And with dramatic hand gestures.
I swear that the entire restaurant turns to watch just as he clutches his chest like he’s auditioning for some tragic West End musical, eyes locked on me like this is the climax of our great love story.
My vision blurs. My ears ring.
And the tablecloth is starting to look like a viable hiding place.
Somewhere between the second verse and what I pray is the final chorus, he attempts a falsetto, and I have to force myself not to slide under the table.
Instead, I experience an out-of-body event.
I watch in horror as he winks at a child two tables over. The child looks haunted. I briefly consider faking a seizure.
Finally - mercifully - the song stumbles to an end, and Noah beams, breathless and flushed like he’s just performed at a sold-out arena.
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 .