Page 5 of When the Storm Breaks
Not to run away, but to find something lighter. To meet people who didn’t already have a version of me in their heads. People who didn’t expect me to be okay.
That was the goal: to stop pretending. To finally figure out who I really was under all the people-pleasing and smiling-through-it.
I wasn’t trying to be happy. I was trying to be me.
Jules understood that better than anyone. She made it feel possible. She told me I didn’t have to keep being who I’d always been just because it made everyone else more comfortable. That I could be someone new.
That I alreadywas.
But now she’s gone.
And no matter where I go, there’s always a part of me that feels empty. A part that’s still broken.
A part she was helping to heal.
It’s like the world around me is on mute, but the silence isn’t peaceful—it’s deafening. A constant ringing in my ears. A loyal reminder that she’s gone.
I slide into my car, slamming the door shut behind me.
God, I miss her so much I ache.
Chapter 2
Calla
The moment I pull into the small parking lot beside the bar, my stomach twists with regret. This was a mistake. I should’ve stayed home.
What was I thinking?
Still, I climb out of the car, closing the door as quietly as possible. My sneakers crunch against the gravel as I cross the dimly lit lot, each step forward a little slower than the last. I can already feel the hours pressing down on me.
When I reach the door, I pause, swallowing hard against the nausea rising in my throat. But my hand moves on instinct, closing around the metal handle.
I take a shaky breath.
And I pull it open.
Warm air rushes out to greet me, laced with soft notes of Christmas music and the rich scent of alcohol and aged wood. I step inside, but pause in the doorway, shrinking into myself as I scan the room.
It’s packed. My coworkers are everywhere, tucked into pockets of the bar, voices rising with bursts of laughter and animated conversation.The happiness feels suffocating, like it might swallow me whole.
My gaze is fixed to the floor, but there’s a quiet pull I can’t ignore. Like a magnet, my eyes lift—drawn forward by something.
Or someone.
My vision floats across the barstools, most of them surprisingly empty as my coworkers settle into corners and booths. The bar itself is antique, dark and sturdy, a quiet contrast to the lighter floors and flickering sconces casting warm light from either side. A massive vintage mirror spans the wall behind it, its gold trim glinting softly above neat rows of bottles that line the back shelf.
My eyes drift over them, searching for something I can drown in.
And that’s when I see him.
Our eyes lock, and it’s like I’m caught in his gravity. At this point, I know I’m staring, but he hasn’t looked away either. It’s like we’re stuck in this strange, silent standoff, and I’m not sure who’ll break it first.
The noise fades, and suddenly, it’s just me and him. He leans casually against the back of the bar, his presence quietly dominating, his expression unreadable. There’s a quiet intensity to him—like he’s built from something solid with a rawness hidden underneath.
He’s the most undeniably attractive man I’ve ever seen.
His stare pins me in place, and I can’t help but memorize him in return, trying to absorb every detail.
