Page 161 of When the Storm Breaks
No words. Just another quiet, familiar act of care.
Why did I run?
I could’ve stayed. I could’ve been safe here.
But then I remember why I left.
The tears. The emptiness. The blues. The guilt of dragging them down with me.
Breakfast doesn’t last long—just a few short exchanges, a couple murmured thank-yous.
And then I retreat.
Back up the stairs. Back into the quiet of my bedroom.
Each creaky step feels like a warning. A whisper that today has to be different. That today has to be the day I actually try.
I grab my laptop and settle cross-legged on the bed, opening it like I have a plan. Like I have direction.
The first thing I do is close out the dozens of tabs I’ve left open for weeks—maybe even months. Digital clutter. Lingering proof of half-hearted attempts to figure out my life.
Today, I start fresh.
I pull up job listings, scrolling through endless descriptions, but nothing clicks. A few sound mildly interesting, but none of them feel like a future.
None of them feel likemyfuture.
Because the only time I ever pictured one—the only time I ever letmyself believe in something beyond just surviving—
Was with him.
I clench my jaw and push it away before I spiral.
I can’t think about him. I won’t.
I bookmark a few leads, but I don’t apply. It feels too final. Too permanent. And right now, I’m barely holding onto the pieces of myself as it is.
So I scroll. I read. I let the hours slip by, sifting through options I don’t care about.
I’m not starting from scratch. Not really.
I’ve freelanced—small, one-off tasks. Just enough to keep going. Just enough to convince myself I’m not falling apart.
Because if I stop moving, even for a second, I might not be able to start again.
By mid-afternoon, whatever focus I had has crumbled. I’ve gone from sitting upright and semi-productive to lying flat on my stomach, face buried in the mattress, laptop abandoned somewhere beside me.
Now it’s doom-scrolling—puppy videos, random threads, distractions to fill the tightness in my chest.
The sun starts to dip.
Shadows stretch across my bedroom walls.
Another day, wasted.
Is this what moving on is supposed to feel like?
Because it doesn’t feel like moving.
