Page 156 of When the Storm Breaks

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But it’s over.

She’s not coming.

And the feeling settles over me like wet concrete.

I should’ve told her a long time ago, before it got this far. Before it made me into this.

I turn away.

I can’t keep doing this.

But I will.

I already know I will.

I wonder what she thinks when she opens the door.

If she rolls her eyes. If she picks up the coffee. If she drinks it. If she crushes the butterfly in her hand—or tucks it away somewhere I’ll never see.

I don’t know.

And it’s fucking killing me.

I take the stairs, down and out, but I don’t leave right away.

I stop at the curb and look up at the building. I don’t even know which window is hers. But it doesn’t matter.

I still look for her.

The street is starting to come alive—cars backing out of driveways, a woman walking her dog, a few runners jogging past.

No one notices me standing there, though. They never do.

It hits me, then.

I’m doing the same thing my dad used to do. Waiting. Watching. Hovering outside someone’s life like I’m owed a piece of it.

He told me once that my silence was my safety.

I didn’t want to believe him. But maybe that’s where it begins—with fear disguised as loyalty.

I promised I’d never be like him. I couldn’t be.

But standing here—hands in my pockets, hoping for a glimpse of her—

I don’t know anymore.

He acted. He took. He crossed a line and didn’t look back.

Thisis different.

Isn’t it?

I start the walk back toward my apartment, hands shoved deep into my pockets, thoughts circling the same loop.

The coffee. The scone. The butterfly.

The way she might be watching. The way she might not be.

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