Page 3 of When the Storm Breaks
Calla
Celebrating Christmas two weeks early at a dive bar with coworkers I barely know is bad enough. Worse, though, is knowing I’ve spent the last two months avoiding the office—holed up at home, buried in research and writing, where it’s quieter. Safer. Less suffocating. Even though they gave me the desk by the window, like I asked.
I’ll go.
It’s a performance, really. Get dressed. Show up. Make small talk. Smile at the right moments. Pretend I’m not clinging, white-knuckled, to a frayed cord tethering me to a life that doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
Pretend there’s anything to celebrate.
Everything about tonight—the cheap drinks, the gaudy decorations, the syrupy cheer—feels forced. Standing in a room full of laughter feels like a betrayal.
But if I don’t go, they’ll notice. They’ll talk.
So I’ll go.
It’s easier to fake it for a few hours than try to explain why I can’t.
Don’t get me wrong, they’re nice enough. Good morals, easy conversation, pleasant company, but they’re not my people.
Jules was my person. The only one.
It’s strange, looking back—we’d only known each other a few months. Barely a season. But sometimes, time doesn’t matter. Some people just show up and feel like they’ve been there all along.
Even now, I catch myself forgetting she’s not.
I only have an hour before I have to be at Driftwood, but time feels heavy, stretching and slowing into the late evening.
The shower didn’t help the way I’d hoped. I still feel unsettled, like I’m borrowing some lost version of myself just to make it through the night.
As I pass the bathroom mirror, I catch a glimpse of my reflection and freeze.
I lean in close, tightening the towel around me, fingers curling into the fabric. My eyes study the stranger’s face staring back at me. I know it’s me, but as my fingers trace the curve of my cheek, as my eyes jump to count each freckle, it doesn’t feel like me.
My hands tremble as I try to adjust the towel, pulling it tighter—but it slips, revealing a bare body I can’t quite claim. I close my eyes and let the shiver crawl through me.
It’s my body. I know it is. But it feels like it belongs to someone else.
I swing the towel shut and clutch it tighter, like I can shield myself from what I see. But the green in my eyes, flecked with gold, startles me—almost too bright under the harsh light. I search them anyway, desperate for something familiar, and all I find are the shadows beneath. I’m not sure how I missed them before.
The features I’ve always known feel out of reach now, like they’re not mine to own anymore.
A shaky sigh slips out as I tug the towel from my head, letting damp copper-red strands fall over my shoulders. I run my fingers absently through the tangles. My hairbrush sits on the counter, only an arm’s length away, but I can’t bring myself to reach for it.
Somewhere between one breath and the next, I start moving.
Before I realize it, my makeup is done. Foundation sits heavy on my skin, mascara clinging to my lashes. I don’t even remember doing it. The minutes blur together like they never even happened.
I turn to leave, but pause, glancing back at the mirror. Whatever I was hoping to see isn’t there. A pang of guilt hits me—the relentless weight of a life I’m not sure I’m ready to live. No matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the feeling of being trapped. Trapped in a version of myself I barely recognize. Trapped in a world that keeps moving faster and further, while I continue to stand still.
When I finally force myself away from the mirror, I step into the bedroom and fling open the closet door. I stare blankly at the rows of clothes, shoving hangers to the left and the right, then move to the dresser, pulling out clothes only to shove them back in. Frustration bubbles up until it spills over, and with a loud breath, I drop to the floor.
Why couldn’t I have just gone to the office? Made some friends, had a few easy conversations,moved on?
Maybe tonight wouldn’t feel so impossible.
Maybe I’d finally feel like I belong.
Shaking my head, I pull on a sweater. It’s tight. Itchy. Suffocating. I rip it off and toss it into the growing pile on the floor.
