Page 4 of When the Storm Breaks
Every piece of clothing, every tug of my hair as I strip another item away, feels like a reminder—of how small I am, how out of place I feel in a life that’s supposed to be mine.
The pile keeps growing. Nothing fits, nothing feels right, and every glance in the mirror makes it worse.
I’m out of time. Out of patience. And every time I look at my reflection, the stranger is still there, staring back at me.
I glance at the clock on my desk.
I’m late.
Defeated, I drop to the floor, knees sinking into the mess I’ve made.
My hands shake as I fumble with my shoes, the laces slipping through my clumsy fingers. I tie them anyway, but the motions feel empty.
Whatever momentum I had, whatever was pushing me forward, is gone.
With a sigh, I stand, almost tripping over my half-tied laces as I hurry toward the door. I grip the handle tightly, swinging it open with a frustrated breath.
It’s time to put the face on.
It’s stupid. But I don’t know how to stop anymore.
The plan was to walk. Have a few drinks. Let the buzz settle into my limbs before the cold could.
A thirty-minute walk in December isn’t ideal. But if Jules taught me anything, it’s that a good alcohol blanket can turn thirty into five.
The thought almost makes me laugh, but it catches in my throat. She should be here.
I feel her absence everywhere.
She was always there, filling the spaces I didn’t even realize were empty. Now it’s just… quiet.
I try to focus on the small things—the sound of my feet on the pavement, the feel of my keys in my hand—but there’s an anguish in the space she left behind.
Ileft everything behind. Tried to start over here, hoping it would fix something.
After the move, I’d tell people I was from the Northeast—like it meant something. Like being in New England now made it some kind of clean slate. But the truth was, I’d only moved a few hours away. Still close enough to visit, far enough to feel like I shouldn’t.
It was supposed to feel like freedom. I thought if I got far enough away from everything familiar, maybe I’d stop feeling like a burden.
I grew up happy. Back home, things were fine.
Suburban neighborhoods where lawns were mowed on Sundays and mailboxes never leaned. Dinner on the table by six. Notes in lunchboxes.
My dad used to help me build science projects in the garage, staying up late to fix anything I’d accidentally glued crooked.
It should’ve been enough.
But after college—after everything—that life started to feel tight. Like it didn’t fit anymore. Like I was constantly breathing through a straw.
Nothing happened, really. Not in the way people think. The sadness just showed up one day and didn’t leave. And after a while, I stopped expecting it to.
I moved back when things got bad. At first, it felt safe. But after a while, safety turned into pressure. To become something. To besomeone.
And it was paralyzing.
Some mornings, I couldn’t even get out of bed. I could feel the worry every time my parents looked at me, like I was making the whole house heavier just by being in it.
So I left.
