Page 193 of When the Storm Breaks
Because I’ll never take that from him. Not his people. Not his place. I won’t let him believe choosing me means losing everything else.
He nods—just barely. And I know what it means. He’s not ready. Not fully. But he’s choosing us anyway.
At the next tight turn out of town, he reaches for my hand. Steers with the other like it’s second nature—like he’s done it a hundred times, and he’ll do it a hundred times more.
I glance back one last time, watching the town shrink in the rearview mirror.
A place that broke me open. That gave me loss—but also gave me something worth staying for.
And when it finally disappears, I see the shift in Haiyden.
His face is unreadable—but calm.
The kind of calm that comes when the storm breaks—when the sky is still heavy, but the worst has already passed.
When what’s left isn’t perfect, but it’s still standing.
We drive until the trees thicken and the world grows quiet again.
The lake is exactly as we left it—still, dark, endless.
The spring air is crisp, the scent of pine and wind sharp in my lungs as we step out onto the rocky shore.
The water reflects the sky. Reflects us.
The mountains rise in the distance—jagged, unwavering—like they’ve been waiting for our return.
Haiyden stops first. Hands in his pockets. Gaze fixed on the water.
I watch him for a moment and wonder what he sees—
His sister.
The boy he used to be.
The pieces of his past he could never put down.
“She would’ve loved you,” he says quietly.
I swallow.
I never met Willow, but I feel her here—in the set of Haiyden’s shoulders. In the birdsong threading through the trees like a whisper. Like she never fully left. Like she’s folded into him somehow, in all the ways he doesn’t say out loud.
I take a step closer to the edge, looking down at the lake.
And I feel Jules.
Not a ghost. Not a shadow. Just a soft, steady ache in my chest that never really left.
I don’t say anything, but I wonder if she can see me now—
If she knows I still carry her in every piece of myself I hadto rebuild.
Haiyden reaches for my hand, holding it tightly.
We stand there, side by side, unmoving. The wind rustles the trees. But we stay still—like we’re giving the world a moment to catch up with us.
And when the breeze finally distorts our reflection, for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a wound that won’t heal.
