Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
But no - it's not poetry this time. It’s worse.
It’s a Spotify playlist.
Noah & Poppy: Our Love in Songs.
Oh no.
I scroll through the disaster zone that is the tracklist and inhale sharply.
“Wow,” I say. “Noah, I… This is... a lot.”
“I know, right?” He practically shines with pride. "I spent hours on it."
I fight back a grimace as I continue to scroll.
“Wait, wait - this one is so us,” Noah insists, nudging his phone further toward me like he’s discovered something profound.
I hit play - more out of morbid curiosity than anything else - and soft, sentimental chords float from the tiny speakers.
The lyrics start, all dreamy and dramatic - something about knowing someone was meant for you the moment you imagined them.
I choke on my croissant.
Noah’s hand darts out to pat my back - mechanically, like he’s been programmed to show concern - but his face is lit up with pride.
"See? Isn’t it perfect?" he says. “It’s basically our story. Like, fate, and all that stuff.”
“Fate,” I wheeze, trying to blink the tears out of my eyes and ignore the piece of pastry lodged in my throat. “Yeah. Wow.”
Because nothing screams romantic destiny like a syrupy ballad about falling for a concept.
* * *
About an hour or so later, we’re strolling through Covent Garden when Noah stops dead in his tracks.
“Wait,” he says, gripping my hand like a man with a revelation. “Do you hear that?”
I listen for sirens, or maybe the sweet sound of my dignity returning.
Nope. Can’t be that.
"It's music," I frown.
“No, no - you’re not listening,” he insists, eyes wide with what I can only assume is emotion. “This one’s… different. This one’s ours.”
Oh.
Oh no.
He turns to me, eyes alight.
"Dance with me."
“I - right here?” I squeak. “In the middle of the street?”
“Yes,” he breathes. “Come on - let’s do it. Like no one’s watching.”
People are definitely watching. In fact, I swear that a dog across the way has stopped mid-pee just to stare at us.
“I mean, there’s a bin… right there,” I say weakly, gesturing to the overflowing rubbish next to us.
“Exactly,” he whispers. “Love doesn’t wait for the perfect moment. It creates it.”
And just like that, he’s swaying. Arms open and smiling like he’s in a movie.
I step towards him like I’m walking into an ambush.
Before I can protest further, his hands are on my waist, and he’s pulling me into a slow sway right there on the cobblestones. My arms hover awkwardly at my sides before I drape them - reluctantly - around his shoulders, stiff as a mannequin.
I sway - if you can call it that. Mostly, I just rock back and forth like a malfunctioning metronome, while he closes his eyes and hums along to the music like we’re in some slow-motion romcom montage.
I think I die a little.
And as Noah tries to dip me dramatically and declares that I’m his soulmate, I finally know.
This relationship has an expiration date.
And I think I just heard the timer go off.
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.