Page 180 of When the Storm Breaks
Lately, even the monotony feels like something I can hold on to. There’s order in the repetition. I don’t want excitement anymore—don’t want anything that might shake the fragile balance I’ve managed to keep.
But something about today feels… wrong.
I try to stay busy, but my mind keeps drifting back to her.
Where she is.
If she’s okay.
What she’s thinking now that everything is out in the open.
If she even knows.
I make it through most of the morning. The busy work carries me just far enough to hold off the worst of it.
I’m finishing up paperwork in the back, head down, when I hear a soft knock at the door.
My body goes still. Frustration coils in my chest.
It happens sometimes—reporters, strangers, people poking around for details they don’t deserve. Always looking for a soundbite.A reaction.
I hesitate. Tell myself to ignore it. Choose peace.
But it comes again. Louder.
I exhale sharply, already rehearsing how I’m going to shut it down. The last thing I need is another round of questions.
I stride to the door, head down, grip the handle, and pull it open without thinking.
And my world stops.
Calla.
She’s standing there, backlit by sunlight.
Her long red hair falls in windswept waves over one shoulder—tangled, unruly in that perfectly imperfect way I never understood but always loved. The pieces that usually frame her face are tucked behind her ears, like she’s been fidgeting. Like she doesn’t know whether to hide or fully step into the light.
She’s healthy.
It’s the first thing I notice, and the relief hits hard.
I remember how she looked before—fragile, withdrawn, barely eating. But now, she’s steady on her feet. There’s strength in her frame. A softness that wasn’t there before.
Like someone else has been taking care of her.
That thought alone nearly undoes me.
But sadness clings to her.
Her green eyes flick to the floor, hidden behind her lashes—still burning with that quiet intensity I know too well. But the light in them, the spark, is gone. Like it’s been snuffed out. Like it might never come back.
Her skin is the same pale shade I remember, but there’s warmthnow. Color. A flush from the sun that brings out her freckles. She’s always had them, but now they’re darker. More defined. Scattered across her cheeks and nose in a way I swear wasn’t there before.
I want to count them. Kiss every single one that’s bloomed while she’s been away.
She’s still the woman I fell hopelessly in love with. But she’s not the same.
And when the earth finally feels like it starts spinning again, she stays at the center of it.
