Page 106 of When the Storm Breaks
Eventually, I roll onto my back beside her, the cold seeping through my jacket until I can feel the earth below me. I stare up at the sky, watching snowflakes drift down like ash.
The world is muted. But it’s the kind of silence that feels earned.
I turn my head slightly. Calla’s beside me, arms spread out, eyes closed, tongue out. Catching snowflakes like she’s never done it before.
Like this is the only time she’s ever allowed herself to justbe.
Just… living.
I reach out and place my gloved hand over hers. She curls her fingers around mine without even opening her eyes.
So I close mine too. Tip my head back. Stick out my tongue. Let the snow melt on contact.
This—this feels like happy.
Like snow days with extra marshmallows and Saturday morning cartoons I pretended to be too old for. Like the smell of cinnamon in December. My mom folding laundry in the living room. My dad tying my boots tighter after I already did them, just to make sure they’d hold.
I hold onto that feeling as long as I can. Because that was before.
Before everything cracked open.
Before silence started spilling out of the places where laughter used to live. Before grief carved out pieces of me I didn’t know could be taken.
Pieces only she knows how to hold.
I turn to her again, watching as snowflakes kiss her skin and melt into her warmth.
And I want to. I want to tell her.
I think I might need you forever, Calla James.
Chapter 32
Calla
We were out there for hours. Haiyden made us do everything—snowball fights, snow angels, building bricks for an igloo, and finally, a snowman together.
The snow’s still melting on our jackets. My fingers are stiff. My face is numb. But I’m smiling.
Because I know what it was. What it meant. It wasn’t just him being ridiculous or restless. He wanted to give me something I never had as a kid.
He wanted to rewrite the memory. Scrape away the loneliness.
And somehow, he did.
I look down at him, crouched in front of me, focused like it really matters. He unzips my jacket, already working on the button of my snowpants. I laugh, the sound slipping out before I can help it. “I can take it off myself, Haiyden.”
He looks up at me, eyes warm. Serious in a way that shouldn’t make me feel this safe.
“Nope,” he says. “Let me.”
So I do.
He takes everything off piece by piece—hat, gloves, jacket, boots, snowpants—and tosses it all into a soggy heap by the door. There’s something almost ceremonial about it, like he’s peeling away more than the snow. Like he’s undoing the weight of the day. The quiet between us. Me.
I raise an eyebrow at the growing mess.
“I’ll deal with it tomorrow,” he says, brushing it off like it’s nothing. Then he places both hands on my shoulders, turns me gently, and walks me toward the bathroom.
