Page 142 of When the Storm Breaks
Even after everything.
I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my bare skin.
She shifts, leaning against the door frame like she needs the support. Like she’s taking in the full mess of whatever the hell I’ve become.
Her eyes meet mine. And for the first time since she showed up, I see it—the rawness. The crack in her chest, wide open.
It’s there. Unmistakable.
She’s broken too.
“Chase texted me,” she says softly. “Can we talk?”
My throat tightens. I swallow hard, forcing my body into motion.
I step back, clearing my throat as I gesture toward the room—some hollow attempt at hospitality, like I can pretend this disaster isn’t mine.
“Yeah. Yeah, come in.”
She hesitates—just for a second—then finally steps inside.
The air between us brims with something tight. We both want to speak. Neither of us knows how to start.
I watch as she moves deeper into the room, her gaze drifting over everything—the empty bottles scattered across the nightstand and dresser, the clothes I never picked up after that night at her place, still tangled on the floor.
The bed, sheets twisted in a way that feels permanent.
Like I’ve been here since the moment she walked away.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shy away from any of it.
Instead, she moves to the center of the room, turns back to me, arms crossing over her chest protectively.
“You look awful,” she says quietly.
An empty smirk tugs at my lips. “Yeah, well. You should see the other guy.”
The joke lands flat. I see it immediately—the way her expression doesn’t change, the way her shoulders pull tight.
She didn’t come here for this. Not to watch me dodge. Not to listen to me hide behind humor.
Her head falls into her hands, fingers pressing against her temples, and something twists in my chest. I hate seeing her like this—frustrated, exhausted, barely holdingit together.
And knowing I’m the reason? It’s too much.
She exhales—heavy. Like she’s forcing out everything she isn’t saying. Like she’s trying to breathe past it.
“Haiyden—”
“Calla.”
She steps toward the bed, and for a second, I think she’s going to sit. That she’s going to stay.
That maybe—just maybe—she won’t feel so far away from me.
But she doesn’t. She stops just short of it, holding herself back.
Unease cuts through me, fast and brutal. My stomach knots as I watch her stand there, stiff and uncertain, like she’s already halfway out the door.
