Page 47 of When the Storm Breaks
Jules’s scarf hanging by the door, like she’d just stepped out for a minute.
Her favorite travel mug on the counter—the one with the crack in the side that she always swore didn’t leak.
A cookbook she loved, left open to a stained page she’d used a dozen times.
She made that pasta for every fight, every heartbreak. Said carbs were better for closure. I used to roll my eyes, but now I’d kill for one more bowl of overcooked penne.
And her shoes. By the door.
It’s been two months.Two months.
Why does he still have so much of her stuff? Is it grief? A desperate attempt to hold on? Or is it something else—something worse?
Guilt, maybe.
Evidence.
I pull into my apartment complex as the rain starts coming down harder, beating against the windshield in relentless sheets.
I should feel grateful for the warm winter. Grateful this isn’t a snowstorm. That I didn’t spend the night stuck at Chase and Haiyden’s.
But lately, I can’t bring myself to be grateful for anything.
When I slam the car door shut, I don’t move.
I just stand there, looking up at the sky, eyes fluttering closed as the rain pours down. I stretch my arms wide, letting the freezing droplets sting my face. A slow, shuddering breath escapes me as water seeps into my clothes, as the fabric clings to my skin. My hair sticks to my cheeks, tangling with the tears that finally spill over.
I let myself feel it, just for a second.
The freedom in my emptiness.
It’s small. Fleeting.
I turn toward the door and head inside, frustration and sadness simmering beneath my skin.
My keys hit the counter.
I peel off my soaking jacket and let it fall to the floor. The chill clings to me, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake it. The ache in my chest stays, too. A dull, unyielding pressure.
When I make it to my room, I strip off my wet clothes without thinking, letting them fall into a heap on the floor. The cold air hits my skin, sharp and bracing, but I ignore it.
I pull on an oversized sweatshirt and a dry pair of underwear, hands moving on autopilot.
My body feels like it’s made of lead, and every step to my bed feels like a battle. I collapse onto the mattress, sheets freezing against my skin, and reach for my phone without much thought, scrolling absently through old pictures of me and Jules.
She made a playlist once, calledThe Happy Hour Setlistfor ourweekend mornings. It was full of songs I’d dance to in the kitchen, hair still wet from a shower, socks sliding across the tile. She said I glowed when I was in motion.
I wonder what she’d say now, seeing me like this.
“I’m sorry, Jules,” I whisper. The words scrape out of my throat, rough and broken. “I’m so sorry.”
Photo after photo slides by—beach days, coffee dates, those ridiculous late-night selfies we used to take when we were drunk and tired, laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe.
I try to listen for her laugh, but it’s fading. Like I can’t quite grasp the sound of it anymore. Maybe that’s the worst part of grief.
The forgetting.
And then I see it. The silver necklace with the small, delicate heart pendant. The one she never took off.
