Page 121 of When the Storm Breaks
10:48 p.m.
Calla: Are you okay?
Chapter 38
Haiyden
9:31p.m.
Calla: Please let me know you’re okay. I’m worried.
Chapter 39
Calla
Madelyn: Good morning, Calla. Can you come in for a meeting around 2:00?
Shit.
I guess I should’ve seen this coming. My work life has been practically non-existent. Between Jules, Haiyden, and everything in between—I haven’t had the time, the energy, the motivation.
A pit forms in my stomach, tightening as the reality of my neglect settles in. My phone feels heavier in my hand, like another burden I can’t shake. I only have thirty minutes to get to the office—no time to sit here, no time to overthink or come up with some excuse that won’t make me sound as pathetic as I feel.
I haven’t even answered her yet. I don’t know what to say, how to soften the blow, how to ease the embarrassment of having to face this.
How long has it even been since I was actually present in something that wasn’t my own mess?
I try to count the days, but my mind blanks, refusing to acknowledge the answer. Time has blurred, stretched, collapsed in on itself. The pastfew days haven’t felt real—like I’ve been drifting outside of time, a visitor in my own life.
Moments pass, but nothing sticks.
I force myself out of bed, but standing makes my head swim. Dizziness washes over me, and I have to plant my feet just to stay grounded.
My movements are slow and detached as I grab a crumpled sweater from the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor. I pull it over my head, sniffing as it goes on. Passable. Good enough.
Turning to my desk chair, I search for a pair of worn-but-not-ready-to-wash jeans, but my breath catches.
Haiyden’s sweatshirts. His t-shirts.
The ones I’ve collected over the past week are still untouched, right where I left them. My jeans are nowhere in sight.
I reach out automatically, hand hovering over the pile, but something stops me.
Maybe it’s the fear that if I touch them, they’ll disappear—just like he did.
The thought hits me hard, low, like a punch to the ribs.
I have a track record, don’t I? People leaving. Slipping through my fingers. Maybe it’s me. Too complicated. Too messy. Too much.
It’s exhausting, carrying that weight. And I wonder—maybe in another world, I don’t feel like this all the time. Maybe in another world, I don’t have to carry all of this grief.
I shake the thought away and force myself to focus. Getting to the office is the priority.
Grabbing a protein bar from the kitchen, I head to the car and start driving. Only once I’m on the road do I realize how little effort Iput into the basics before leaving. I haven’t been to the office in two months, and now I’m showing up in dirty clothes and unbrushed teeth.
I pop a piece of gum into my mouth, hoping it’s enough to mask the neglect. That’s what everything has been lately—a bandage. A temporary fix for a bigger problem I keep pushing aside.
The drive is short but drags endlessly. The silence in the car presses down on me, heavier the closer I get. My fingers drum against the steering wheel, my body moving through the motions while my mind floats miles away.
