Page 77 of When the Storm Breaks
Jeans.
I slept injeans.
Rubbing my temples, I force myself to take in my surroundings. The walls are crisp and white, empty, but intentional. More blank slate than afterthought. Across the room, a dresser sits against the wall, nearly bare except for a small catchall tray and—my phone.
A relieved breath escapes me. At least I have that.
To my right, something catches my eye. A splash of color against the neutral tones. The ZZ plant in the yellow pot.
A small, tired smile pulls at my lips. Its leaves are glossy, its soil still damp. He’s been taking care of it.
I can’t explain the warmth that blooms in my chest, but it’s there. A quiet breath of light. A small ray of sunshine in his life, just like I hoped it would be.
I shift, pushing up onto my hands, sitting cross-legged and taking in the rest of the room.
To my left, a bookshelf draws my eyes. It’s mostly bare, unassuming—aside from a few scattered items.
On the lowest shelf, a small stack of paperbacks sits tucked to their side. Their spines are creased, worn. The titles aren’t immediately visible, but when I lean forward, something clicks. A few of the classics. The kinds of stories that stick around, that shape the people who read them.
My lips curve into a grin. I never would’ve pictured Haiyden as the type to keep books like these.
They’re stacked unevenly, like they’ve been pulled down and shoved back without much thought. No real care for order. It’s an endearing kind of chaos.
My gaze drifts to the top shelf, barely within view from where I’m sitting, but probably eye level for Haiyden.
There’s a small cluster of objects. Not decorations, exactly, but things that feel intentional. Like they mean something.
Squinting past the dull throb behind my eyes, I make out two pieces of origami: a pastel pink butterfly and a deep green crane. They’re angled just so, positioned with care. Dust gathers around them, undisturbed—like no one’s touched that shelf in months.
Next to the origami, leaning against the back of the shelf, is a photo. It’s unframed, propped up casually, the edges slightly bent, like it’s been handled a hundred times.
Two kids stare back at me, their faces lit up with wide, carefree smiles. A boy and a girl, both in bathing suits, popsicles in hand, their hair dripping wet as a sprinkler sprays behind them.
I stop breathing. The nausea shifts, morphing into something heavier.
It takes me a second to recognize him.
But when I do, everything inside me goes still.
Haiyden.
My fingers twist in the sheets. It doesn’t seem possible. I’ve never seen him like this—unrestrained, untouched by everything he carries now. But if I close my eyes and try to imagine what he would look like happy, truly happy, this is it. The softness in his face, the openness in his expression. And despite the years, he hasn’t changed much. His features are unmistakable, just harder now, more guarded.
My gaze shifts to the girl beside him, and a chill slides down my spine. She looks just like him. Same dark eyes. Same sharp features.
They could be twins.
And just like that, the realization settles over me: I know nothing about this man.
Not really. Not the parts that matter. I’ve only ever seen what he’s chosen to show me, the fragments he allows to slip through the cracks. Everything else is locked up tight, sealed behind doors I don’t even know how to knock on.
His room alone is proof of that.
I suddenly feel like an intruder, sitting here in his space, staring at a piece of his life that he hasn’t offered to me.
My head pounds in protest, and my mouth is bone dry.
Water. I need water.
