Page 172 of When the Storm Breaks
But I said it all.
He knew about Willow. Everyone did.
But I told him about Calla. About my dad. About the party. About Jules. About how I’d held it in for so long, I wasn’t sure how to let any of it go.
I told him how I’d kept quiet at first out of loyalty—because of everything they’d done for me, and everything I owed them when I didn’t protect Willow.
How my dad started saying I would go down with him if I spoke up.
How he was probably right—because I knew too much for too long.
And how, eventually, fear took the space where loyalty used to be.
I told him I was glad he reached out to her. That I needed to tell thetruth, even if it destroyed me. That I was so fucking angry at my dad for ruining everything—my life, my plans, my chance to be something more than this.
That I was tired of being a fuck-up. That I didn’t know how to fix anything anymore, not even myself.
I told him everything. Even the parts I hadn’t told Calla.
The ones I never got the chance to.
The ones I wasn’t sure I ever would.
And he just listened.
Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t try to fix it.
Just sat there, letting me pour it all out. Nodding when I needed him.
When I finally stopped—when there was nothing else to say—he exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.
“Took you long enough,” he muttered, shaking his head.
But after a beat, he reached over and gripped my shoulder.
“It’s a lot, Haiyden. Seriously, a lot,” he said quietly. “But I got you, man, I always have.”
I blink myself out of the memory, but it lingers—clinging like fog. Even as I move through the motions of getting ready, it stays.
Faint but present.
Settling quietly into my routine.
Margot’s tail wags as I clip her leash into her harness, the soft jingle of the metal the only real sound.
Outside, the morning air is crisp, cutting through the last of my sleep as Margot trots beside me. I take the long route around the block—through town, past rows of houses and apartments where warm, golden light glows behind drawn curtains.
Eventually, we reach Maple & Clover.
I used to stop here every morning, trading money for pastries I never ate—pastries that should’ve been hers. Calla’s.
It was a sick ritual.
A quiet kind of self-inflicted pain.
But I don’t need that anymore.
By the time we’re back, the sun’s fully risen, slanting through the windows in soft streaks. Margot jumps back into bed without hesitation, curling into the blankets like she never left.
