Every book a beginning

· Every word a forever

· Every book a beginning · Every word a forever ·

A LOVE WORTH STAYING IN FOR.

A Love Story That begins Where Everything Else Ends

She lost her husband.
He lost his wife.
They found each other.

Neither of them was looking for a second chance—until a freezing New Year’s Eve brought them face to face. On the Edge of After is my unforgettable debut novel, a beautiful, hopeful love story about what comes next when the worst has already happened. As Merritt and Beau’s tender connection deepens, so does the danger: a web of political conspiracy and hidden betrayals that threatens everything they’re building. Raw, tender, and deeply human, this story will break your heart—and hand it back healed.

A perfect read for the quiet days—when endings still ache, and beginnings feel uncertain.

START READING NOW

A perfect read for anyone who loves love stories that stay with you.

Welcome to Wolfe + Words

Real stories. Gentle hope. A quiet place to come home to.

You’ll receive a free digital download of On the Edge of After — my award-winning debut novel — the moment you join my newsletter.

It’s the story that still catches in my own throat. A little bruised around the edges, full of slow healing and the kind of love that doesn’t always tie up neatly, yet somehow leaves you softer than you were before. I hope it finds its way into your hands exactly when you need it.

In these letters I’ll send you the things closest to my heart: new stories and early glimpses, the occasional poem or reflection, small updates from my desk to yours, and whatever quiet truth I’m carrying at the time.

Writing has carried me through more seasons than I can name. This little corner of the internet is where I share the words that matter most — the ones that feel like a warm light left on for you.

I’d be so honoured if you’d let me write to you.

Books And Stories By Britt Wolfe

Every book a beginning. Every word a forever.

I write love stories, ghost stories, and the quiet poetry that lives between.
From emotionally devastating novellas to haunting fiction and poetic reflections on rage, softness, and survival—
there's something here for every version of you.

Poetry By Britt Wolfe

Poetry is just journaling—but make it cryptic, dramatic, and a little unhinged. I write about love, grief, betrayal, and the kind of simmering resentment that should be unpacked in therapy but is instead served fresh, wrapped in metaphor and the occasional unnecessary comma. It’s cheaper than counselling and way more fun.

Now—let’s get one thing straight: these poems are fiction. Fiction. They are not confessions. They are not evidence. They are not codes, subtweets, or secret messages. They are emotionally heightened, creatively exaggerated, and occasionally written just because the cadence was nice. If you think one might be about you—it’s not. Unless you’re stalking me and making my life harder, in which case… hi 👋🏻 still not about you. Please go away.

What you will find here is razor-sharp honesty, vulnerability with bite, and the literary equivalent of crying in public but making it look hot. The kind of commentary that feels too personal—because it’s mine. Not yours.

A new poem goes up every single day. So refresh the page, let your heartbreak (or your rage) settle in, and maybe take everything a little less personally. Or, you know, just leave me alone.

Click here to read all my sad, sad poems.

Poetry

This Old House: Chapter Twelve

This chapter explores the quiet aftermath of separation, where what remains must learn to exist in a space that has grown too large for it. This Old House: Chapter Twelve traces the subtle but profound shifts that follow departure—not through dramatic collapse, but through the slow thinning of presence, routine, and care. Through the beam’s perspective, we witness how absence accumulates in small, tangible ways, and how those left behind begin to change in response. It is a meditation on the weight of emptiness, the burden placed on those who try to hold what cannot be held, and the quiet ways people begin to disappear without ever leaving. 💚

This Old House: Chapter Eleven

This chapter marks the moment where what has been quietly unraveling can no longer be contained within silence. This Old House: Chapter Eleven brings the fracture into view, not through confrontation, but through distance—the kind that settles in slowly and becomes impossible to ignore. Through the beam’s steady perspective, we witness a family reshaping itself without ever fully acknowledging what is being lost. It is a study in absence made visible, where departure happens without ceremony, and what remains must learn to exist in a space that no longer holds what it once did. 💚

This Old House: Chapter Ten

This chapter explores what happens after the moment of loss—when nothing resolves, and life continues in a shape it was never meant to hold. This Old House: Chapter Ten traces the slow, quiet erosion of a family as absence begins to press into every corner of their lives. Through the beam’s perspective, we witness how routines falter, connections strain, and the house itself starts to mirror what is unfolding within it. There is no single breaking point, only a steady unravelling, where what once felt solid becomes fragile, and everything begins to shift around the space that cannot be filled. 💚

This Old House: Chapter Nine

This chapter is the quiet breaking point of the story—the moment where nothing visible happens, and yet everything changes. This Old House: Chapter Nine captures the shape of absence as it forms, not through event or explanation, but through the slow, unsettling realization that someone is no longer there. Through the beam’s steady perspective, we witness how loss first appears: as a delay, a question, a space that cannot be accounted for. It is not an ending, but an opening—one that will remain unresolved, reshaping everything that follows as the house and those within it begin to move around what cannot be filled. 💚

This Old House: Chapter Eight

This chapter marks the first quiet fracture within something that once felt whole. This Old House: Chapter Eight turns its focus to the eldest daughter, tracing the subtle, almost imperceptible shifts that signal change long before anything is spoken aloud. Through the beam’s watchful perspective, we sense the tension building beneath the surface—the altered rhythms, the unspoken questions, the growing distance that cannot yet be named. Nothing has broken, not yet, but something has undeniably moved. It is a meditation on the moments that go unnoticed in real time, the beginnings of change that only reveal their weight in hindsight, when it is already too late to hold things as they were. 💚

This Old House: Chapter Seven

This chapter deepens the heart of the story, as the house transforms from a place of quiet endurance into a living, breathing home. This Old House: Chapter Seven captures the beauty of ordinary life—the rhythms, routines, and small, unremarkable moments that quietly build something lasting. Through the beam’s perspective, we witness the slow formation of connection, not just between the family, but within the space itself, as it begins to hold something it has never known in quite this way. It is here that observation becomes attachment, and the act of holding shifts from obligation to something closer to meaning. 💚

This Old House: Chapter Six

This chapter marks a quiet but profound turning point, as something unfamiliar enters the house for the first time in years—gentleness. This Old House: Chapter Six introduces a family not through disruption, but through care, intention, and the slow, deliberate act of building a life within the space. Through the beam’s perspective, we feel the shift from endurance to awareness, as it begins to recognize a kind of presence that does not take, but gives. It is here that something long closed begins to open—tentatively, cautiously—as the house is filled not just with people, but with the fragile beginnings of something that might, at last, resemble belonging. 💚

This Old House: Chapter Five

This chapter captures the quiet transformation of a place being reshaped—where change is not an ending, but a layering over what came before. This Old House: Chapter Five explores the illusion of renewal, the careful ways in which spaces are stripped, softened, and reimagined without ever truly releasing their past. Through the beam’s steady perspective, we witness the house being altered into something more palatable, more acceptable, while everything it has held remains just beneath the surface. It is a meditation on time as erosion rather than disappearance, and on the truth that what is covered is not the same as what is gone. 💚

This Old House: Chapter Four

This chapter marks a shift in both atmosphere and awareness, as the house takes on a quieter, more intimate kind of life—one shaped by secrecy, restraint, and unspoken exchanges. This Old House: Chapter Four explores what it means to witness not just presence, but the weight of what is taken, hidden, and endured within closed doors. Through the beam’s perspective, the tone deepens into something more uneasy, more observant, as it begins to recognize the difference between lives lived freely and lives lived under quiet constraint. It is here that observation sharpens into understanding, and the act of holding becomes something more complicated—no longer neutral, but marked by everything the house is forced to carry. 💚

This Old House: Chapter Three

This chapter marks the moment where transformation becomes permanence—where something once living is fixed into place and made to carry lives it does not belong to. This Old House: Chapter Three introduces the house itself and the first of many occupants, expanding the story beyond the self and into the quiet, relentless act of witnessing. Through the beam’s perspective, we begin to understand the weight of holding without being seen, of supporting lives that move loudly and carelessly above and below it. It is here that observation sharpens into awareness, and the first traces of something deeper begin to take root—not just endurance, but the slow, steady becoming of a witness who will remember everything. 💚

This Old House: Chapter Two

This opening chapter lays the foundation for a story told across This chapter moves from belief into breaking—tracing the brutal transformation from something whole into something used. This Old House: Chapter Two explores the loss of identity that comes not just from being taken, but from being divided, reshaped, and repurposed without regard for what once was. Through the tree’s voice, we feel the disorientation of becoming pieces that still remember being one, and the quiet, unsettling realization that purpose can be imposed rather than chosen. It is here, in the aftermath of that understanding, that something new begins to form—not grief, not yet, but the earliest edge of something harder, something that will endure. 💚

This Old House: Chapter One

This opening chapter lays the foundation for a story told across time, memory, and transformation. This Old House: Chapter One introduces a voice that begins in quiet devotion—rooted in belief, in purpose, in the inherited certainty that becoming something “greater” is the ultimate calling. Through the eyes of the tree, we witness the fragile nature of that belief as it collides with a harsher reality, where purpose is not honoured, but taken. This poem sets the tone for the series to come: a long, watchful journey through what is built, what is broken, and what remains to bear witness long after everything else has changed. 💚

Crater

This poem traces the slow, devastating unravelling of a home—not through spectacle, but through the quiet, accumulating moments that precede collapse. Crater explores how something once full of warmth and life can be reduced to absence without a single visible explosion, leaving behind damage that is both invisible and permanent. At its heart, it is a story about the aftermath—about standing in the hollow left behind, recognizing what cannot be rebuilt, and choosing, with painful clarity, not to remain there. It speaks to the kind of loss that reshapes a life entirely, and to the strength it takes to walk away from the ruins instead of trying to call them home again. 💚

What He Couldn’t Unlearn

This poem steps back just enough to tell a deeply personal story in a way that feels both intimate and universal. By shifting the perspective, it becomes a reflection on inherited harm—the patterns that repeat when they go unexamined—and the quiet, powerful act of choosing differently. What He Couldn’t Unlearn is not concerned with assigning blame or uncovering intent; instead, it centres on the moment someone sees the fire for what it is and decides not to step into it. It is a poem about awareness, distance, and the kind of strength that doesn’t need to be loud to be life-changing—the strength to walk away and, in doing so, rewrite the ending. 💚

Britt Was Here

This poem is a quiet declaration of intention—of choosing, with purpose and care, to leave something meaningful behind. It speaks to the kind of legacy that isn’t built through recognition or applause, but through the subtle, lasting impact we have on the people we touch. Britt Was Here is about pouring yourself into your work, your words, and your relationships in a way that lingers—offering comfort, strength, and a sense of being seen long after the moment has passed. It is a reminder that even the smallest acts of kindness and creation can echo far beyond us, shaping a world that feels just a little softer, a little braver, because we were in it. 💚

Feelings Aren’t Even Real

Feelings Aren’t Even Real is a confrontation with the voice that lives beneath everything—the one that whispers you are not enough, that you are behind, that you will never become what you hoped. It is not a story of overcoming that voice, but of learning to move alongside it, to create in spite of it, to refuse to let something so loud and convincing dictate what gets made and what never sees the light. This piece sits in the tension between belief and defiance, asking what happens when you stop waiting to feel ready—and start anyway.

Vesuvius

Trigger warning: This piece contains themes of childhood suicidal ideation and self-perception.

I wrote Vesuvius when I was eleven years old, at a time when I felt a quiet but persistent need to leave everything behind. Not in a loud or visible way, but in the kind of way that convinces you your absence might be a kindness. I am deeply fortunate that I no longer believe that to be true. Time, life, and perspective have shifted something fundamental in me. And still, if I am being honest, I am learning—slowly and deliberately—how to fully inhabit this life without that old instinct whispering that disappearing might be the gentlest thing I could offer the world. This poem is not a return to that belief, but a recognition of the girl who held it, and the woman who chose to stay.

Unlucky

This poem sits in the quiet, often unspoken space between perception and truth—the place where effort is rewritten as ease, and discipline is dismissed as chance. Unlucky explores the subtle arrogance of those who stand at a distance and reduce another’s becoming to something accidental, something they were simply denied. It is a reflection on what it means to be seen incorrectly, to have your work diminished into something convenient for others to believe—and the quiet, unshakeable power of knowing the truth of what it took to become who you are.💚

But It Was Ours

There are moments in life we can never return to—places, people, and versions of ourselves that no longer exist in the same way, if at all. But It Was Ours sits in that quiet space between loss and meaning, where what is gone is not undone. This piece reflects on the enduring weight of lived experience—the simple, profound truth that something does not need to last forever to have mattered completely. It is a meditation on memory, belonging, and the quiet, unshakeable proof that for a time, we were there—and that it was real. 💚

Only There Now

This poem sits in the quiet devastation of memory—the place where nothing is physically present, and yet everything still exists. It explores the haunting reality that there are people, places, and versions of ourselves that continue on in memory, untouched and unchanged, while we are forced to move forward without them. There is no resolution here, no comfort offered—only the slow, aching recognition that some things are not lost in a single moment, but fade until they exist nowhere else but in the mind, waiting for us to remember them. 💚

Even Forests Are Socialist

This poem challenges the idea that survival is an individual pursuit, drawing from the quiet, undeniable intelligence of forests. Beneath the surface, trees exist in systems of connection, exchange, and interdependence—not out of kindness, but because it is the most effective way to endure. In contrast, we have built a world that rewards separation, accumulation, and dominance, even when those instincts lead to collapse. This piece is not about ideology—it’s about reality. About what it actually takes to survive, and the uncomfortable truth that nature has already figured out what we continue to resist. 💚

We’ll Handle It

This poem is about the quiet, unwavering promise of partnership—the kind that isn’t built on certainty, but on commitment. It acknowledges that life will bring both beauty and hardship, often without warning, and that not everything can be controlled or prevented. But within that uncertainty, there is something steady: the choice to face it all together. This is about standing side by side through whatever comes, not because it will be easy, but because you’ve decided you will handle it—together, no matter what. 💚

The Water Of The Womb

This poem is about the family we choose—and the quiet, powerful truth that love given freely will always mean more than love demanded by blood. It reflects the shift from obligation to devotion, from enduring connection to embracing it, and the profound sense of belonging that comes from being seen, accepted, and held exactly as you are. This is a celebration of the people who found me, who chose me, and who have poured something real and life-giving into my world—something deeper than where I came from. 💚

Work In Progress

This poem is about what comes after the damage—when nothing is clean or resolved, and healing isn’t a destination but a lifelong commitment. It’s about the unfairness of having to carry what you didn’t choose, and the quiet, relentless work of choosing who you want to be anyway. Even when it’s exhausting. Even when it feels like you’re losing. This is a promise to keep going—not because it’s easy, but because there is too much at stake not to. 💚

I Used To Be Kind

This poem is about the quiet, relentless erosion of something I once believed was unshakeable. Not the kind of loss that arrives all at once, loud and undeniable—but the kind that happens slowly, over years, through small moments that wear you down without ever fully breaking you. It reflects what it feels like to fight to remain soft in a world that rewards sharpness, and the fear that comes when you begin to feel yourself changing anyway. Not because you want to, but because something in you is tired of being the one that bends. 💚

Uninvited

This piece explores a quieter, more disorienting kind of harm—the kind that comes from proximity you never chose. It is about being shaped by someone who was simply there, embedded into your life without invitation, and the long, complicated process of disentangling from something that was never yours to carry. Even after distance is created, the imprint remains—subtle, persistent, and often unfair in its endurance. This poem sits in that tension: the relief of leaving, the reality of what lingers, and the truth that not all connections are chosen, but their aftermath is still ours to reckon with. 💚

Contained Fire

This piece sits inside the anger that follows harm—not the kind that explodes outward, but the kind that lives beneath the surface, constant and uninvited. It is about the dissonance of becoming someone you were never meant to be, carrying a heat that does not feel like your own, and the quiet, exhausting work of holding it without letting it take over. There is an understanding here that the fire will not burn this brightly forever—but that knowledge does not lessen the reality of what it feels like to live with it now. This is what it means to contain something you never chose to carry. 🔥

Aftermath

This piece explores the quiet but irreversible moment when a life is divided into before and after—not by choice, but by something done to you that you were never meant to carry. It is about the disorientation of remembering who you were before you knew, and the stark, often unrecognizable person you become after. There is a particular kind of unfairness in being reshaped by harm while the source of it continues on, untouched, elsewhere. And yet, within that fracture, there is also a truth that refuses to be erased: that even in the aftermath of something you did not choose, you are still here, still becoming, still learning how to live with both versions of yourself at once. 🖤

My Participation In My Own Erasure

This piece sits in the uncomfortable space between love and loss—not of another person, but of the self that slowly disappeared in the act of trying to be loved. It is about the quiet ways we learn to reshape ourselves to stay close to someone who feels like gravity, and the harder truth that sometimes, what we gave was not taken, but offered—again and again, until there was almost nothing left. There is grief here, and there is permanence in what was lost, but there is also something steadier beneath it: the moment where the giving stops, where the harm no longer continues, and where a life—unchosen for so long—begins to belong to you again. 💚

Annihilation

This poem lives inside the moment, not after it. It captures the frantic, unravelling logic of needing to be wanted so badly that the self becomes negotiable—adjusted, reduced, reshaped in real time in the hope of finally getting it right. There is no clarity here, no resolution—only the relentless internal bargaining that convinces you the problem is you, and that if you can just fix yourself fast enough, thoroughly enough, you might be allowed to stay. It is not love. It is not reason. It is the quiet, desperate machinery of self-erasure in motion. 🖤

Every book a beginning

·

Every word a forever

·

Every book a beginning · Every word a forever · Every book a beginning · Every word a forever ·