Page 27 of When the Storm Breaks
The lightness of Driftwood mornings feels tainted now, like Haiyden’s darkness has seeped into the cracks of everything I once found comforting.
Haiyden.
I whisper his name, tasting it like something forbidden. Each time, it sinks deeper into me, leaving an ache that feels both familiar and new, like it’s been waiting to resurface all along.
His darkness has a way of clinging to things, slipping into quiet moments and making them feel suffocating. Maybe that’s why everything feels this way again. Why it’s suddenly harder to breathe.
I just don’t recognize this life anymore.
I stand in the middle of my living room, taking in the mess around me. Tangled blankets spill across the couch from sleepless nights I barely remember. Dirty dishes sit abandoned in the sink, long past the point of soaking. Empty wine glasses litter the coffee table, stickycrimson stains pooling at the bottom like ghosts of indulgences I’d rather forget.
The loneliness creeps in again, and it burns, just like it always does.
Every year, the same thing happens. The “Christmas Blues,” my family used to call them. They’d laugh it off, blaming the post-holiday letdown—the expectation, the hype, the excitement—all of it snuffed out the moment the last family member walked out the door.
Like flipping a switch.
Happy to sad.
Light to dark.
But it feels different now. Something potent, more invasive. Something that wraps itself around my days and nights like a thick, choking fog.
I feel it in the way my chest aches with every uneven beat of my heart, as if it’s fighting to keep me alive. In the way I drag a brush through my hair, untangling knots I don’t remember making. In the staleness of the air. The sour tang of old wine and yesterday’s pasta still sitting on the counter.
Things are getting bad again, and it hurts.
Everything hurts.
Stepping into the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My reflection feels foreign—pale skin, tired eyes rimmed with shadows. Nearly a full day of sleep should’ve left me rested, but I still look completely drained.
My feet drag as I approach the shower. It’s all too much.
I close my eyes, reaching for anything that might pull me out of this. I think of Maple’s. Of Driftwood. I picture the few bright spotsin my life. The people who matter. The ones who make me feel like I’m worth it.
Maggie and Chase. That’s two.
Four, if you count Maple and Clover.
With a shaky breath, I turn the knob and the water sputters to life. The sound echoes in the small space, but I can’t bring myself to move. I rub my hands over my face, trying to scrub away the haze that clings to me. And slowly, I tie my hair into a messy knot, pull the curtain aside, and step in.
I used to sing in the shower. Loudly. Off-key. Jules would bang on the wall, yelling at me to shut up, and I’d just sing louder.
I’m not sure I know how to hum anymore.
The water is warm, but it does nothing to ease the cold embedded deep inside me. I stand there, staring blankly at the spray, too numb to move.
Then my knees give out, and I sink to the cold porcelain of the tub. The spray barely reaches me, but I can’t bring myself to adjust it.
The tears come next, slow at first, pooling in my eyes before spilling over. I don’t even know how I have any left to cry, but I let them fall. My head throbs with every shaky breath, but I don’t fight it. I just let the ache spill out in waves.
When the cold tile against my back becomes unbearable, I shift forward, sliding further into the spray. The warmth crawls up my arms, then to my chest, easing the worst of the trembling.
Once I’m almost completely under, I reach up and unravel the knot in my hair. The strands fall heavy around my face, water streaming through them as I tilt forward, letting the spray engulf me.
The sound of the water muffles my shallow breathing, and I dropmy head to my knees, letting the world blur around me.
I don’t know how long I sit there, but by the time I lift my head, I know the water should be cold by now.
