He was never a gypsy. That was the disguise I wrapped him in so I didn’t have to call him what he was. He appeared when it suited him. Disappeared when it didn’t. Never stayed long enough to be known. Never left long enough to let me be free. Just enough to keep my heart from healing back inside my chest. I told myself he was a free spirit, that he lived lightly. That his absence meant he was deep, mysterious, that it was part of his intelligence. But really, it was just avoi

WHITE LILY Three weeks. Three weeks of breathing again. Then the engine. I knew that sound before I saw him. By the time I reached the gate, he was already walking away. Uber waiting on the curb like an accomplice. I intercepted him, but he wouldn't speak. Said he had to go, gave me half a hug. I was shaking like a leaf, I tried to lean in, needing him to hold me together for a moment. But he was already pulling away. And then he was gone. Three minutes.
That’s all it took to

Dion and I blurred the edges of our friendship to romance once more. We booked a trip, packed up the kids and drove north with the windows down. Us, three boys, Jackson, and our eclectic mix of music up loud. The morning was still. Perfect. Not a hint of weather. Blue sky stretched clear and endless, like the promise of forever. Salt and sunscreen. Lime Whiteclaws in the sand. We took the 4WD down by the shore and unfolded the double camp chair into the shallows, feet in the

Finn was easy to love in daylight. Warm. Physical. Present. He held me, kissed me, built little pockets of happiness I could step into without thinking too hard. But when I looked at him too closely there was a distance I couldn't cross. Like knocking on a door that never fully opened. He could meet my body but not my soul, and I think we both knew it. He didn't know I drew. He never asked. With Dion it was the opposite. Nothing about him was safe. Nothing about him was stabl

The pistachio shells were still rattling in the camper when everything broke. Mum collapsed on the kitchen floor. Heart attack. Ambulance lights filled the walls. The boys stood frozen while I held it together. Two days later, another call, for me this time. Cervical cancer. And somewhere in the middle of all that— Westley’s birthday came. No message. No call. No “sorry, I forgot.” Nothing. He went on his boys’ weekend. Margaret River. Didn’t stop by. Didn’t check in. Didn’t

We took a trip to Dunsborough with the kids and the dogs. A weekend camping under the stars to escape the pressure of daily life. It was a beautiful mess right from the start. Three kids, two dogs, one cramped camper, and a man allergic to routine. The boys had their own little gang, riding around the holiday park on their pushbikes, sunburnt and free. Robbie enlisted Nathaniel to gang up on Dion and I, sneaking in and peppering us with pistachio shells like tiny machine-gun

His humour matched mine. Subtle, dark but not morbid. Sharp at times, definitely dry, and just right of centre. The kind most people miss or interpret as something dull or vaguely offensive. For once, I didn’t have to sand myself down or smooth the edges of my jokes. Messages turned into hours. Hours turned into plans. And then he appeared one morning on the Ducati, random parts of a picnic stuffed into his backpack, like he’d decided this ten minutes earlier and committed

The Risk I had forgotten what it felt like to have fun. Then he appeared. Dion. Messy hair. Crooked grin. Eyes that looked tired in a way I recognised. What stood out to me most was he didn’t try. No abs. No quotes about loyalty. No fish photos (thank God!). Just… him. Unpolished. Slightly off-centre. Intrigued, I messaged him back. Our texts weren’t exactly sweet or even flirtatious. Pretty much the written equivalent of two people poking at each other with sticks. He disapp