Fake It Till We Feel It

Ever had that moment when the world slams the breaks?

Like the universe hits the brakes just so you can make one massive, messy decision in under thirty seconds – one that will either save your ass or blow up your whole damn life?

Cool. Me too.

Let’s say your house is on fire. Real flames, real smoke, the whole drama.

On your bed: the blanket your mom knitted for you before you were born.

On your nightstand: the only photo you have of you and her together.

You can only grab one.

(And no, ‘both’ isn’t an option here. Jesus ain’t got time to wait.)

Which do you save?

It’s not like Satan’s waiting for you or anything. Totally chill.

Now, I’m not literally standing in a burning building.

(Yet.)

But the feeling is the same.

I’m standing in my bedroom, staring at my bed, my fists clenching and unclenching like I’m about to box a ghost.

And the thing is...whatever I decide tonight?

Someone’s getting cut.

Emotionally.

Maybe physically, too.

(Not that I’ll lose any sleep.)

Before we get into all that chaos, I guess I should introduce myself properly.

I’m Nomzamo Jones.

Twenty-three years old, proudly South African, and currently pretending that my degree at Stellenbosch University is going to fix my life – like the justice system is prepared for this chaos-coded brilliance.

Spoiler alert: It’s not.

I’m 5′5" on a good day, cursed with short hair, blessed with a body most gym girls would sell their kidneys for, and fuelled entirely by sarcasm, rage, and a concerning amount of cheap coffee.

Tonight, my life’s about to take a sharp left turn into revenge territory.

And the best part?

I’m not the only one getting dragged to hell.

—And if you’ve made it this far, welcome to the wreckage.

Author’s Note:

This is my debut novel, and I’m so damn proud (and slightly terrified) to be sharing it with you.

Fake It Till We Feel It is for the emotionally fried, the sarcastically inclined, and anyone who’s ever screamed into a pillow instead of going to therapy.

If you’re here to watch a hot mess unfold in hoodie-clad chaos — you’re in the right place.

Just a heads up: This story is marked Mature. No smut (yet), but plenty of cursing, revenge plans, and characters who cope with trauma via petty violence and cheap liquor.

Thanks for giving it a shot. Welcome to the Hartbeats.

Buckle up. It’s about to get unhinged.