Page 158 of When the Storm Breaks

---

The scone follows—straight into the trash. I don’t hesitate. It lands on top of everything else.

I almost push it deeper, out of sight. But that feels too much like care.

So I walk away instead.

The butterfly is always last. Still in my hand. I never realize I’m keeping it until I do.

It’s just paper. Just folded edges. It shouldn’t mean anything—

But it does. And I hate that.

I tell myself it’s not about him. That I’m keeping it for some other reason. That I don’t know what to do with it.

But that’s a lie.

And I hate that too.

I walk to the kitchen. Open the drawer.

The butterfly lands inside, swimming among the others—a mess of bright orange, tucked away like a secret that’s mine to keep.

I don’t count them. I don’t want to know.

I slam the drawer shut before I can change my mind.

The routine is infuriating—the way he keeps showing up. The way I keep letting him. It’s like he’s haunting me—close enough to feel, never close enough to touch.

He’s punishing himself. And he should.

But he doesn’t see that he’s punishing me, too.

Some mornings, my hands shake with the urge to storm downstairs—to throw the coffee in his face, to shove the butterfly back into his chest.

To scream.

To make it stop.

But I don’t.

Because facing him would mean asking for answers. And I’m still too afraid of what he might say.

There’s a part of me that still wonders what I would’ve done if I’d just let him explain.

If he’d just told me everything from the beginning.

But he didn’t.

And silence feels a lot like guilt when the stakes are life and death.

This morning is no different. I pad out of bed and flick on thehallway light as I move toward the door.

I know he’s there.

My hand hovers over the knob.

If I open it, I’ll see him—the way he looks when he waits. When he hopes. When he hurts.

What would I even say?

---