Page 159 of When the Storm Breaks
Leave me alone? Stop? You don’t get to do this?
I don’t know.
So I don’t say anything at all.
My fingers fall from the handle. I flick off the light and turn back toward my bedroom.
Later, when the coffee is drained, the pastry is in the trash, and the butterfly is tucked into the drawer with the rest, I’ll have peace.
For a few hours.
But tomorrow, he’ll do it all over again.
And I’ll go through it all over again.
Again and again.
But not for much longer.
After all, butterflies are a symbol of transformation. Rebirth.
New beginnings.
Chapter 54
Calla
It’s been three months since I left.
My hand rests on the doorknob of my childhood bedroom, but I can’t bring myself to twist it. To push it open. To walk downstairs.
It feels like I’ve slipped backward in time—sinking into the same quiet sadness I thought I’d outgrown.
The same ache.
The same longing for something better.
Like I’m seventeen again—only this time, I’ve forgotten how to swim. And every step toward the rest of the world feels like wading through water.
Every attempt knocked back by an unseen current.
The smell of buttered toast and coffee climbs the stairs, curling under my door—familiar and unchanged.
But it’s still not enough to pull me forward.
Maybe I could just stay in bed. Let the day pass me by. Pretend the last year never happened. The truth is, it already feels like a fogged-up memory—something I can barely grasp.
The coffee smells exactly the same. A little burnt, the way it always did—
When I was in high school.
When I came home from college.
When I stood in this same kitchen, trying to shake the same heaviness pressing down on me now.
For years, I blamed the brand. Eventually, I realized it was probably the pot itself—old and overused, its warmth soaked into the fabric of this house like everything else that’s lasted.
When I finally push the door open and tread downstairs, the scent of toast wraps around me.
