Mistaking Fire for Warmth

A love story without the lie

A brutally honest memoir about desire, denial, and staying too long.

When intensity is mistaken for intimacy and jealousy for love — even when we know better.

Told with dark humour and emotional precision, it examines how chemistry and loneliness can override intuition.

It’s not a redemption arc. It’s recognition.

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“Emotional, intense, and painfully recognisable. I kept asking myself, Is this real?”

— Lisette V, Holland

Not sure? Listen first.

A short excerpt from the memoir — the days after he leaves, and the pull to reach for him anyway.

This is the book’s own voice: the pining, the dark humour, the two Karens arguing it out.

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▸Prefer to read? · contains strong language

An excerpt from the memoir · the ‘He’s Gone’ chapter

I feel okay. Things to do. ‘Normal’ life to get back to. Without the buzz, without the meandering, without the emotional and physical thrills.

It hurts a bit.

Oh no, pangs are surfacing. Heart pangs. Groin pangs. My skin wants to be touched, kissed, caressed, and electrified by him. I’m listening to our songs and my body is screaming. I can get there DIY. The memory of him takes me all the way. But it’s not the same. I wanted him to stay.

The pining is seeping in. Stop listening to sad songs, romantic songs, songs which remind me of him. Listen to Banger Rock. Fuck It Music. Find my Fuck It attitude. The attitude that keeps people at arm’s length. The attitude that doesn’t crave anyone or feel hurt.

Grumpy one day. Wistful the next. It must be woeful Wednesday.

Do I text?
No. I don’t want a sexting relationship.
He texts me! We have an uncanny synchronicity. He made the first contact! He’s thinking about me! He’s alone in a hotel room - missing me.

His message: “Wish you were here”

OK-Karen — imagines caressing his face
Dark-Karen — masturbates and hopes he regrets his choice. He never invited me along

The warmth of my orgasm calms me. I recall his breath on my ear lobe when he murmured “You must know how I feel about you.” The memory of that night brings me out of my shadow. I want to hear his voice. Phone calls are way better than texting.

His phone voice is so smooth and thrilling to hear. I find myself grinning from ear to ear. What is this crazy interlude? I never read Mills and Boon.
NOT horsey outback tales my sister likes
NOR time travel romance my daughters delight.
NO chick flicks or fairy tale weddings for me.
It’s all a farce, they never last.

I’m in a poem mood. I have indeed ended up in a Mills and Boon story.

My poem to him:
He writes in prose and makes it rhyme
He hits the mark time after time
With wit and free flow, his words are a score.
Voice like smooth music, leave me wanting more.

His poem to me:
A flawless soul like clear blue skies. Beautiful brown eyes.

OK-Karen loves it
Dark-Karen cracks up laughing

My poem must have worked because he’s doing a U-Turn!

That’s the voice. Here’s why it might be yours.

You already know the pattern.

You’ve done the work. You saw it coming. You chose anyway.

You don’t need someone to tell you what to do. You’ve had plenty of that.

What’s rare is hearing it named — without flinching.

That’s what this book is.

I don’t come out of it fixed. I come out oriented, my inner compass reset.

My story doesn’t give you steps or promise you’ll stop.

You get the seeing. What you do with it is yours.