Chapter Thirty-Two
T he hum of the plane’s engines fills the cabin as I stare blankly out of the window, watching the clouds drift by.
It’s almost surreal, being here again.
Only this time, I’m leaving behind everything in Spain as opposed to England.
The life I’ve tried so hard to build, the life that now feels like it’s crumbling under the weight of expectations I never asked for.
My bag is tucked under the seat in front of me, stuffed with hastily packed clothes, toiletries, and my journal. I didn’t even think about what I threw in, really - I just grabbed the essentials, desperate to escape after calling in sick to work.
I tap my fingers against the armrest, unable to shake the tension coiled in my chest. The flight attendants move up and down the aisle, offering drinks and snacks to the half-filled plane, but I wave them off.
I’m far too wound up to eat or drink.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat, willing the tears to stay at bay. Thankfully, there’s an empty seat next to me, and the man sitting on the end of the row doesn’t so much as look up from his book in my direction, thankfully oblivious to the emotional storm brewing beside him .
The flight feels both too short and too long, the hours dragging and rushing by all at once. When the captain announces our descent into Manchester, my chest tightens, the reality of what I’m doing sinking in.
∞∞∞
The plane touches down smoothly, and I force myself to take slow, steady breaths as I gather my things and follow the line of passengers off the aircraft. The terminal is bustling with activity, and I clutch my bag tightly, weaving through the crowd through the baggage claim.
When I step into the arrivals hall, the sight of my mum waiting for me is enough to make my throat tighten. She’s standing near the edge of the crowd and craning her neck to spot me.
Her eyes light up when they meet mine.
“Olivia!” she calls, waving enthusiastically.
I hurry towards her, my legs shaky, and as soon as I’m within reach, she pulls me into a tight hug.
“Oh, love,” she murmurs, her voice thick with concern. “You’re here. You’re home.”
I nod against her shoulder, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“I had to come back.”
“Of course you did,” she says, pulling back to look at me. Her hands rest on my shoulders, her eyes scanning my face. “You look exhausted. Come on, let’s get you home.”
∞∞ ∞
The drive back is quiet, the familiar streets of Manchester rolling past the car windows. It feels like an out of body experience, like I’m watching myself in a film as I stare out of the window.
My mum doesn’t press me with questions, though I can feel her glancing at me every so often, her brow furrowed with worry.
When we finally pull into the driveway of my childhood home, I feel a strange mix of relief and unease. The red-brick house looks exactly as I remember with its neatly kept front garden and big bay window looking out onto the road.
“Here we are,” my mum says, grabbing my bag from the boot. “You go in and I’ll pop the kettle on.”
Inside, the house is warm and familiar, the faint scent of lavender and the sound of the kettle boiling in the kitchen wrapping around me like a hug. I slip off my shoes as my mother returns, leading me into the living room, where she sets my bag down by the sofa and gestures for me to sit.
“You get settled and I’ll get our tea,” she tells me.
I nod, sinking into the cushions and pulling a blanket over my lap. It might be May, but there’s a chill in the air that isn’t there in Spain. The familiarity of it all is comforting, but it also feels strange - like I’ve stepped back in time, back to a version of myself I’m not sure I remember.
When my mum returns with two steaming mugs, she sets them on the coffee table and sits beside me, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
“So,” she says gently, turning to face me. “I’m trying not to pry, but are you going to give me some kind of clue about what’s going on?”
I stare down at the mug of tea, the steam curling into the air, and feel the first tear slide down my cheek .
“I just... I couldn’t stay,” I say, my voice cracking. “It’s all too much. They named my school. My school . I feel like I’ve dragged everyone into this mess, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
“Oh, Liv,” she says, pulling me into another hug. Her arms are warm and steady, and I cling to her like I’m a child again, seeking comfort in the only place that’s ever truly felt safe. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with this.”
Her voice is soft but laced with anger on my behalf, the kind only a mother can muster. It makes the tears I’ve been holding back spill over, hot and relentless, and I bury my face in her shoulder.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit, my voice muffled and trembling. “I feel like I’ve lost control of everything. I’m not cut out for this.”
She strokes my hair, just like she used to do when I was little, the motion slow and soothing.
“You’re stronger than you think,” she murmurs. “And you’re not alone. We’ll figure it out together.”
“I’m not strong,” I say, pulling back enough to look at her. My face feels hot and blotchy, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care. “All I hear about is how strong I am. I’m not. I’ve tried so hard, but it’s like... like I don’t even know who I am anymore. Everything’s about him, about - about us. And I just…”
I break off, shaking my head as the tears start again.
Mum squeezes my hands, her gaze unwavering.
“You’ve always been strong, Olivia. Strong doesn’t mean never feeling overwhelmed or scared. It means getting through it anyway. And you will. You’ve just been caught up in something bigger than you were prepared for, but that doesn’t mean you can’t handle it in your own way. ”
I take a shaky breath. Her words are beginning to sink in, but my guilt refuses to let go.
“I didn’t tell Santi I was leaving,” I confess, my voice barely above a whisper. “I just... I couldn’t face him. He’s so good at handling all of this, and he’s been so good to me, but I’m not good at this at all. I just - I feel like I’m failing him.”
My mother tilts her head, looking at me with that no-nonsense expression I’ve always associated with her moments of wisdom.
“You’re not failing anyone,” she says firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Santi cares about you, doesn’t he?”
I nod, the thought of him making my heart ache.
“He does. He’s been so patient, so supportive, but... I don’t think he really understands how hard this has been for me. He’s used to it: the cameras, the gossip, the spotlight. It doesn’t faze him. But I feel like I’m being ripped apart from every angle, judged, criticised, and it’s too much. It’s suffocating.”
“And have you told him that?” she asks gently.
I shake my head, ashamed. “No. Well, I mean, I’ve tried, but I don’t think I’ve been clear. I didn’t want him to think that I was weak, or being overdramatic. It’s not like I’m an A-List celebrity or something. But now... now I’ve just run away.”
Mum lets out a soft sigh, her thumb brushing over the back of my hand.
“You’re not running away, love. You’re taking a step back to breathe, and that’s okay. Sometimes you need space to figure things out, to see things clearly. And if Santi cares about you the way I think he does, he’ll understand that.”
Her words chip away at the guilt, but it’s still there, a dull ache in the back of my mind .
“What if he doesn’t understand? What if... what if this ruins everything?”
Her gaze softens, and she reaches out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
“Olivia, the right person will never hold it against you for needing time to take care of yourself. And if he’s not the right person, well... you’re better off knowing now, aren’t you?”
The thought terrifies me, but there’s a truth in her words that I can’t ignore.
I nod slowly, her reassurance settling in, and for the first time in days, the tightness in my chest eases just a little.
I glance at my phone, still turned off and buried in my bag. I sip my tea, the warmth spreading through me, and part of me wants to turn it on to see if Santi has replied to my vague message.
But the thought of facing the world - or him - feels like too much right now.
“I’m not ready,” I admit softly, almost to myself.
“That’s alright,” Mum says, her voice steady. “You don’t have to be ready yet. You just got here. Take your time - the rest of the world can, and will, wait.”
I nod again, her words a balm to my frayed nerves. As I sit there, wrapped in the safety of my mother’s presence, I realise she’s right.
The rest of the world can wait.
For now, I just need to find myself again.
∞∞ ∞
The familiar scent of soy sauce, garlic, and crispy spring rolls fills the air as I step into Laura’s apartment, balancing a bag of Chinese takeout in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
It’s almost like déjà vu, and the memory of that January night when everything first unraveled rushes back to me.
Laura grins as she opens the door, her hair tied up in a messy bun and her face free of makeup. She’s wearing an oversized sweater, some dark bicycle shorts and a pair of fluffy socks.
“Liv!” she exclaims, pulling me into a hug that’s so tight I nearly drop the food. “Look at you, you beautiful girl. I can’t believe you’ve spared some time from your glamorous life as a Spanish rugby WAG to come and see me.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. I smile despite the heavy cloud that’s settled over me. “I’m not a WAG.”
“Sure, sure,” she teases, stepping back and giving me a mock-serious once-over. “You don’t look like one, at least. No fake tan, no hair extensions... You didn’t even bring a designer handbag to carry the Chinese. I’m half disappointed, half impressed.”
I can’t help but laugh, some of the tension in my shoulders easing.
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m still the same old Liv.”
She grabs the takeout bag and the wine.
“Good. I like you better that way. Now, get in here and tell me everything while I grab plates. We’re not holding back tonight.”
The living room is just as cosy as I remember, with its mismatched furniture, fairy lights strung up along the wall and a crochet blanket draped over the sofa that I’ve spent countless nights curled up under .
Laura comes back with full plates of food and filled glasses of wine, gesturing dramatically for me to sit.
“Alright, spill . And don’t even think about holding out on me this time.”
I sigh as I settle onto the sofa, pulling a cushion onto my lap. “I don’t even know where to start, honestly. It’s just…these last few weeks have been a lot.”
Her eyes soften, but she still waves a chopstick at me like a wand.
“I figured that when you texted me saying you were coming home. Is this about that article? Because if it is, I will personally fly to Spain and shove a spring roll up that reporter’s nose.”
I snort, nearly choking on my laugh at the image of Claire walking around with a spring roll up her nostril.
“No need to escalate things. But yes, it’s about the article. They twisted everything , Laura. They made me sound like some entitled, bratty girlfriend who’s only important because of Santi. And they named my school after swearing blind that they wouldn’t.”
Her expression shifts, her humor fading as her brow furrows.
“They named your school? As in, your actual workplace? That’s... disgusting. What the hell were they thinking?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice cracking. “I feel like I’ve dragged everyone into this mess. My colleagues, my students, their parents… God, it’s just so unprofessional, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
Laura’s face hardens in a way I’ve rarely seen.
“You didn’t drag anyone into anything, Liv. That reporter made a choice. And let me just say, karma is going to catch up with them eventually. I hope they step on a piece of Lego every morning for the rest of their life.”
Despite myself, I laugh again, wiping at my eyes. “I wish it were that simple.”
Laura leans forward, her tone softening.
“Hey, seriously though - you’re not the bad guy here. You know that, right? You’re just trying to live your life, and some nosey strangers have decided to make that as difficult as possible. That’s on them, not you.”
“I didn’t even tell Santi I was leaving,” I confess. It feels like such a terrible thing to have done, and I’m embarrassed to admit it. “I just sent him a vague message and turned off my phone. I couldn’t face him, Laura. Like I was saying to my mum, he’s just so good at handling all this. It all comes naturally for him. But for me, I just... I’m not good at it. I can’t handle it.”
Laura raises an eyebrow. “Okay, first of all, you’re Olivia Bennett. You’re badass in your own way. And second, I get why you’re scared, but have you considered that maybe Santi isn’t expecting you to handle this perfectly? Maybe he just wants to be there for you.”
My stomach twists, her words hitting a little too close to home.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to talk to him yet.”
“Alright, then don’t,” she says with a shrug, as if it’s the easiest, most simplest thing in the world. “Not until you’re ready. But you do have to figure out what you want, Liv. Because, let’s be real - running away is not a long-term plan. Trust me, I tried it once in uni when I couldn’t handle my exams. Spoiler alert: the exams were still there when I came back.”
I laugh, the sound shaky but genuine. “What did you do?”
“I cried into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s, obviously,” she says, deadpan. “And then I pulled myself together, passed my exams, and became the chaos-ridden adult you see before you today.”
“You’re such an inspiration,” I say dryly, rolling my eyes.
“I know,” she replies, tossing a prawn cracker at me.
The rest of the evening feels lighter, like a weight has been temporarily lifted from my chest. It’s easy to forget about everything else when I’m with Laura, and I’m truly so grateful to have a best friend like her.
Our conversation shifts away from recent dramas to old memories of our school days, back when we’d pull all-nighters fueled by instant noodles and questionable amounts of caffeine, or that time we took a spontaneous weekend trip to Edinburgh and got hopelessly lost because neither of us bothered to bring a map.
Laura has a way of bringing out the best kind of nostalgia, the kind that reminds me of who I was before life became so complicated. She’s a master of storytelling, complete with exaggerated impressions and dramatic hand gestures that have me laughing so hard I almost spill my wine.
“Do you remember,” she says through a mouthful of spring roll, “that time you fell asleep in Mr Green’s lecture and woke up shouting, ‘ I didn’t mean to !’?”
I shake my head, visibly cringing at the memory.
“Why do you always bring that up? It was so bad!”
“Wrong. It was iconic,” she laughs, wiping tears from her eyes. “Honestly, the look on his face? I thought he was going to combust on the spot.”
“Well, you weren’t any better,” I counter, pointing a chopstick at her. “You were the one who dared me to eat that massive slice of chocolate cake just before his class in the first place. The sugar crash was entirely your fault. ”
“Details, details,” she says with a dismissive wave, reaching for the bottle of wine.
The hours slip by, and for a little while, it’s like nothing has changed. Just two friends sitting on a worn sofa, eating Chinese food and laughing about things that don’t really matter.
It’s comforting. Safe.
But as the evening winds down and I finally head home, the weight of reality starts to creep back in. The streets are quiet, and the cool night air feels sharp against my skin as I walk, my thoughts drifting to Laura’s words.
“You do have to figure out what you want, Liv.”
Her voice echoes in my mind, cutting through the jumble of emotions that I’ve been trying so hard to suppress.
As much as I want to stay in this bubble, hiding from the world, I know that she’s right. I can’t do it forever.
I can’t keep running.
But what do I even want?
By the time I reach my mum’s house, my feet feel heavy, and my heart feels even heavier. I let myself in quietly, the faint creak of the door echoing in the stillness of the house.
My mum’s already gone to bed, but there’s a note waiting for me on the kitchen counter, her familiar handwriting neat and comforting.
There’s some leftover shepherd’s pie in the fridge if you’re hungry. Love you, Mum.
I smile faintly, folding the note and slipping it into my pocket. It’s silly, but I don’t want to throw it away.
I open the fridge and see the foil-covered dish on the middle shelf. Even though I’m not particularly hungry, I am rather drunk, so I grab a fork and take a bite straight from the container. The familiar flavors of home settle in my stomach, but they do little to soothe the restless energy buzzing under my skin.
The house is quiet, save for the faint creaks of the floorboards above me as Mum shifts in her sleep. The warmth of home wraps around me, from the worn tablecloth on the kitchen table to the faint scent of lavender that lingers in the air.
I should feel safe here, comforted by the familiarity of the place I grew up in.
But I don’t.
Instead, there’s an unsettled feeling gnawing at the edges of my mind, refusing to be ignored.
What do I want?
The question echoes over and over, relentless in its simplicity and its weight.
I take the shepherd’s pie back to the counter, covering it neatly before placing it back in the fridge. My hands linger on the door handle for a moment, gripping it tighter than necessary, as if grounding myself physically might stop my mind from spiraling.
I glance at the clock on the microwave. 1:32 a.m. It’s late, and I’m exhausted, but my thoughts won’t let me rest.
As I climb the stairs to my old bedroom, each step feels heavier than the last. The walls are still the same pale yellow they were when I was a teenager, the faded posters of bands I used to love still tacked up beside my mirror.
Even my old books are stacked neatly on the shelves, their spines worn from years of rereading .
Everything is just as I left it, but I’m not the same.
I sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingers over the soft quilt my mum made for me years ago. My chest tightens as I think about how lost I feel, like a ship without an anchor.
What do I want?
I don’t have an answer yet, but as I finally lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, one thing is clear: hiding away and avoiding the world isn’t the solution.
I need to figure it out.
Because the longer I stay here, cocooned in the safety of home, the more it will undoubtedly feel like I’m losing myself - and that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.