Chapter 3
Chapter three
It has been four days since the signing at Turn the Page. Four days since Justin left, and about four hours since I last cried; and that’s only because I don’t remember falling asleep last night. I have decided I hate the number four.
The house is still, almost too still. The uncomfortable stillness that settles after something has broken.
My neck aches, stiff from the awkward angle I curled into on the couch. The throw blanket must have slipped to the floor sometime during the night. My mouth is dry, my face tacky with sleep, and my book still lies open on the coffee table like it is watching me, waiting.
I push myself upright, blinking hard, with hair stuck to one cheek. My body moves before my brain catches up, wandering to the kitchen for a glass of water and collapsing on the counter.
My phone buzzes with a meme of A cat in sunglasses holding a cocktail, and a message from Marley.
MARLEY: You’re too hot to be sad. Get up, writer girl.
I press the cool phone to my cheek, focusing on the cold as if it’s the only thing tethering me to my own body. I let it stay there until the absurdity of the meme made the corners of my mouth lift, just barely.
Another notification, this one a voicemail from Tess. I don’t press play; I don’t need to. I already know her voice will be calm and steady, making space for me I’m just not ready to step into.
From the moment I told Tess and Marley about Justin, I have woken to morning check in texts. Even though I haven't had the strength to reply with much more than a thank you or a heart, I know they don’t mind. They keep checking in anyway, and I’m grateful in a way I can’t quite say out loud yet.
I walk back to the living room and sit on a cushion on the floor. The book is still open, with the one line glaring at me. I grab my journal, open it to a blank page and write.
Justin: “You’re always in your head.”
Mason, Chapter Three: “You’re always in your head, Savannah.”
Justin: “Let’s not pretend like you’re too busy for real life.”
Mason: “Let’s not pretend like you’re too busy for real life.”
Justin: “Don’t make me the villain.”
Mason: “Don’t make me the villain in your story.”
My pen scratches circles and arrows between them until the page looks like a crime board. I don’t know whether to be sick or terrified. These aren’t coincidences. They’re word for word. Beat for beat.
I keep going.
Justin: “I never asked to be second to a book.”
Mason: “I never asked to be second to a book.”
The last one makes my stomach flip.
Justin: “I hope you get whatever fairytale you’re looking for, Lilah. Just don’t
call me when it crashes down around you.”
Mason, Chapter Three: “I hope you get whatever fairytale you’re looking for,
Savannah. Just don’t call me when it crashes down around you.”
It is the exact same. Coincidence? Maybe. But it doesn’t feel like a coincidence. It feels like a glitch in the timeline. Is this what a fairytale looks like once the pages stopped turning?
My memory tugs me back to the night I’d written that scene, how it had come easily.
Too easily. A whole chapter in one sitting, as if transcribing something already etched into me.
I didn’t know it then, but maybe that night is the first time I started letting go of him.
Perhaps a part of me has always known, that Justin wouldn’t choose me in the end.
Perhaps I’ve been writing the ending I didn’t want to admit is real.
I press the journal closed, my hand lingering on the cover like it could seal the truth inside.
Buzz.
MARLEY: Hey, is it possible your heart knew before your head did?
I stare at the message. The words landed gently yet with weight, like a truth I’d been avoiding finally knocking at my door. I don't know how to respond. Not really. The closest I could get to honesty, sounded ridiculous. But so did living out a breakup I had already scripted.
LILAH: Maybe. Or maybe I’ve been trying to rewrite the ending before I'm ready to leave the story.
My phone lights up with a notification: Front Gate: Motion detected.
It was the stupid security system at our gate that Justin insisted we need. I swear it tells me every time a bird flies past.
‘Better not be Justin,’ I mutter, opening the app.
Pulling up the grainy black-and-white feed, I see a van idling halfway up the driveway and a figure at the gate, their shoulders hunched and movements quick. My pulse jumps before I can stop it. They glance over their shoulder once, then crouch to set something on the ground just inside the fence.
For a heartbeat, the image freezes on their back, the hood of a jacket pulled up against the drizzle. The camera refocuses and I spot the logo on the van door: Wattlewood Post.
A courier.
My breath slips out in a quiet laugh.
The figure straightens and walks back to the van. A small parcel remains, a pale rectangle against the dark concrete. Just a delivery. Nothing more.
I slide on my shoes, grab the keys, and step outside. The air is warm, but I ignore it, focusing on the bite of gravel underfoot, the security light ticking as it cools. The driveway feels longer when I’m alone.
The parcel sits covered with brown paper and twine—neat, old-fashioned. Up close, I spot the small envelope taped to the top, my name written in Carol’s unmistakable, loopy handwriting.
I carry it back up the drive and into the quiet house. Setting it on the coffee table, I untie the bow carefully, as if it might break.
The note inside is simple:
You were magic last night. A little something to remind you.
Love, Carol x
Last night? Must have been a delay with the post. Inside the box is a photo of Carol, Tess, Marley, and I outside the back room at Turn the Page; before everything changed.
My blazer is slightly crooked, and my cheeks are pink with nerves.
Tess’s arm is slung over my shoulder, while Marley was mid-sentence, grinning widely.
Along with the photo, there is a tiny bouquet of dahlias wrapped in brown paper, and a bar of dark chocolate with sea salt.
I stare at the photo, recalling that moment, the nerves swirling within me. Marley fussing with my hair, while Tess whispered, encouragement in my ear.
Brushing my thumb over my face, I notice how terrified I look, or maybe it is hopeful, like I was on the edge of something I didn’t yet understand. I slipped the photo into my journal, tucking it beside the circled lines. Two versions of the same heartbreak. One fiction and one all too real.
I sit back and whisper into the stillness, ‘Okay, universe. I’m listening.’
And for the first time in days, I didn’t feel quite so alone.
I open my laptop, and the battery is at five per cent. I create a new document and title it: “Rewrite.”
However, I don’t type anything. I just let the cursor blink; a promise to come back later.
I can’t find the charger anywhere so, I stand up and move instinctively. I pull on an oversized jumper, slip into my sneakers, and grab my keys and journal. As I step outside, the house feels colder, as if it had been holding its breath since the last time the door opened.
The road into town is almost empty. The birds have gone quiet, as if the whole forest is listening. My tyres hum over the cracked bitumen until the trees part and I see it.
The Wishing Tree.
It rises from the clearing like something out of an old story, its trunk wide and weathered, its branches heavy with ribbons; scraps of fabric, and folded notes that flutter like restless birds. Hundreds of wishes, whispering against one another in the wind.
I park at the edge of the track and step out. The air shifts, tasting faintly of rain and eucalyptus. A breeze stirs the branches and for a moment it almost sounds like laughter, soft and low.
People say the tree listens. It remembers people’s stories and questions, and sometimes, it’s rumoured to answer. I’ve never believed in things like that, but today, I want to.
There’s a tin box resting at the base of the trunk, half-buried amongst fallen leaves. Inside are scraps of paper, pens, and bits of ribbon frayed from weather and time. I tear a page from my journal and press it against the car’s hood, writing before I can change my mind.
I don’t know who this is for. Maybe it’s for me. But I want to believe that something good can still find me. That I’m not too late to rewrite everything.
L.
I fold the note and tie it to a low branch. The paper flutters once, catching the sunlight, and for a heartbeat it feels as if the whole tree exhales. The ribbons rustle together, not like wind, but like words. A sound too deliberate to be an accident.
I take a step back, the air humming faintly around me. Nothing happens, not really. And yet, as I walk back toward the car, I swear I can feel it; a soft pull in my chest, like something unseen is reaching back.
Maybe the magic isn’t in the tree at all. Maybe it’s in having the courage to ask for a new chapter.
Journal Entry - Tuesday, 5th of August
The line I thought I had invented echoed back to me in real life. Justin said it as if he had read it straight from my manuscript, as if he knew the script.
So what does that mean? Have I been writing my life before living it? Or did I already know how it would end, even before I was ready to face it?
Carol’s gift is small, but it anchored me today. And the Wishing Tree, I’m not sure what I was hoping for, but leaving that letter behind created space inside me, as if I had finally said something out loud, even if no one was there to hear it.
I don’t have all the answers, but I’m listening now, and I’m writing them down.
This might be the rewrite.
xx