Chapter XXXI
XXXI
DAISY
She remembered the time Logan had told her there was only so much wine one could drink in a lifetime.
At first, she’d assumed he meant it literally, especially since she’d always been the one to drown stress in a glass of red.
But the more she thought about it, the more she realised that wine had been a metaphor for something far deeper.
Everything in life had a threshold—a point where pleasure turned to pain.
Love, sadness, grief—indulge too much in any of them, even by a mouthful, and they would make you sick.
Was that what she was? Sick?
When her love for Callan felt as though it was drifting away with the outgoing tide, she forced herself to love him harder.
When sadness came in waves, each larger than the last, she held her breath, bracing against the whitewash.
And when grief—insidious and relentless—came for her sanity, she swam against it, white-knuckled and breathless, refusing to let it take her under.
Logan had once asked her if she’d ever considered the personal cost of her plight. But did anyone? Society screamed for self-care yet condemned those who practised it. By the time Easter arrived, all of them were drowning.
Callan had been struggling in rehab, and they’d put him on a mood stabiliser. On one hand, it helped him regulate. On the other hand, it made him utterly vacant—and Daisy couldn’t decide which was worse.
Life at home hadn’t improved either. He was still living with his mother, and the stress was starting to show in her body.
She’d begun to lose weight rapidly, her already slight frame shrinking to little more than skin and bone.
The meticulous grooming she once took pride in—manicured nails and blow-dried hair—had given way to a dishevelled appearance that spoke of a neglect only those living in hell could understand.
“Sometimes, I wonder if he’s truly happy,” she murmured as they sat watching him with his therapist in the water. “His eyes have seemed so empty lately.”
Daisy dropped her gaze. For someone who had spent a lifetime burying her emotions, saying it out loud must have taken immense effort.
But she wasn’t wrong. Callan had lost that spark.
It was as if every light within him had gone out, leaving behind only a single candle, flickering weakly on the edge of its wick.
“It’ll get better,” Daisy said, forcing the words out.
“I’m not sure I believe that anymore.”
“It will. You’ll see.”
His mother hesitated before reaching into her bag and pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. Daisy knew what it was before reading beyond the first sentence; Callan had started writing a suicide note.
“Where did you find this?” she whispered, her eyes scanning the barely distinguishable words.
His mother closed her eyes, biting down hard on her lip. “In the pocket of his jeans.”
“We need to tell someone.”
“We aren’t telling anyone. He doesn’t know we found it, and that’s a good thing.”
Daisy stared at her. “How is that a good thing?”
“Because it means we can change his mind,” she said, her gaze shifting back to him. “Most don’t get such a luxury.”
She had a point. Daisy had learned from him—Logan—that statistically, men rarely contemplated suicide for long before acting.
It was often quick and decisive, driven by something primal, a final act to rid themselves of whatever pain consumed them.
Women, on the other hand, were methodical.
They weighed the consequences in that quiet way that made it seem as if they were simply waiting for the right moment, place, and time.
It made sense in some detached, clinical way. But looking at Callan now, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was truly what he wanted. If this was his choice to make, who were they to stand in his way?
She tried to swallow the thought and failed.
“What if it’s what he wants?” she asked.
His mother stiffened, her expression hardening. “You aren’t suggesting what I think you are.”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I just—”
“Daisy, he’s unwell.”
“He’s unhappy,” she countered, her voice breaking.
They both fell silent, watching as his therapist bent down to speak to him.
He was so thin. His clavicle jutted out like tree roots, his limbs little more than fragile branches.
She didn't know how much he understood or could comprehend, but she knew sadness.
And Callan, he was the very portrait of it.