Chapter 45
Calla
I just need to get home.
My surroundings are familiar—almost. I recognize them in fragments, but the details slip away when I try to focus. Still, I keep moving, following a path that feels like it was made for me.
But something’s wrong.
The air is thick, heavy with a haze that clings to my skin. It’s impossible to tell where it ends and the world begins. The ground is damp beneath my feet, soft like fresh earth after rain. It gives with every step—like it might swallow me whole if I stop moving.
I press forward—and with a single blink, everything shifts.
The trees dissolve. The damp earth vanishes.
Asphalt.
Cracked and rough beneath my feet. My steps slap against it, but the sound is wrong—distant, muted.
The haze is gone, but the air is colder now, needling into my skin. Far off, I hear the sounds of a city—cars, voices—but when I try to call out, my voice dies in my throat .
The world hums, muffled. Like I’m trapped in a bubble, just outside of reach.
I shake off the unease.
Keep moving.
The pavement melts away, the streets bleeding back into forest—but it’s different this time. Darker.
The trees loom taller, their twisted branches clawing at the sky.
The path ahead is narrow, swallowed by creeping vines. The ground is too soft now—almost liquid—sucking at my feet with every step.
The scent of earth and pine overtakes me, but beneath it… something rotting.
Sour. Decayed.
I stop. Turn.
The path behind me is gone.
Or maybe it was never there.
Everything looks the same—left, right, forward, back. No markers. No sense of where I came from, or where I’m going.
Panic coils tight in my chest, pressing hard against my ribs.
I move faster.
But I don’t know if I’m getting anywhere, or if I’m just running in place.
The more I move, the more the world shifts.
Too hot. Too cold. Too much. Too fast.
The ground turns slick beneath my feet—
And then I’m falling.
I hit my knees hard. Mud clings to my skin, damp and cold. I try to push up, but my palms sink deeper into the earth .
I slip.
I claw at the ground, at anything solid. My fingers grasp for branches, for vines—
But they crumble in my hands.
Like they were never there at all.
A sharp breath punches out of me—raw, panicked.
I try to scream.
“Haiyden!”
His name rips from my throat.
But the trees don’t answer. Nothing does. Just a silence that swallows me whole.
I run.
I don’t know if it’s forward, backward, or in circles—but I run.
My pulse hammers in my ears. My breath splinters.
The ground shifts beneath—dirt, metal, sand—each change sudden, jarring, electric against my skin.
I can’t keep up. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t—
Then, suddenly—
The forest breaks open. A clearing.
For a second, I think I recognize it… but it slips away before I can catch it.
My knees buckle. Exhaustion crashes over me like a weight—like an anchor. I drop to the ground, trembling.
I have to stop running.
Lifting my head, I force out one last plea. One last desperate call.
“Haiyden…”
Silence. Then—an echo.
Distant. Distorted. My own voice thrown back at me. Mocking. Empty.
I reach for it. For something. For anything.
But my fingers close around nothing.
I’m too late.
I jolt awake, body tense, the remnants of my dream still clinging to me. It’s like this every morning now. The panic doesn’t fade—it settles. Deep. Heavy. Unmoving.
My breath is too loud in the quiet. The sheets cling to my damp skin.
I blink hard, waiting for the world to shift again.
It doesn’t. But the feeling stays.
I roll onto my side, eyes settling on the empty space beside me. The absence of him is physical.
Soft morning light filters in through the window, but I don’t move. I just lie there—afraid to rise. Afraid to acknowledge the ache in my chest that never really leaves.
But eventually, I do.
Because it’s too quiet. And right now, I’d welcome any kind of noise.
We don’t speak for another four days, Haiyden and me.
On the first day, I fumble. I move through my routine without really being present. My hands shake as I make breakfast. I burn the toast. I barely taste it.
I pour coffee. I drink it. I try to wake up, try to shake this feeling—but everything feels mechanical.
I shower. I brush my teeth. I brush my hair. I take care of myself.
I exist.
The book about love on my coffee table sits alone, spine cracked to a page I read long before I ever made dinner for Haiyden. Long before our last fight. Our last touch.
I pick it up a few times, try to read, but the words blur together.
It feels like the book is begging me to stop.
To leave it alone.
To let it die.
On the second day, I sit at the window for hours, watching cars roll too fast down the street. Watching neighbors laugh in the yard, their kids tumbling through the grass.
For a long, aching moment, I wonder what it might feel like to be happy.
To have a purpose.
I almost reach for my phone. Almost call my parents. Almost ask them what it’s like—to have a life like that.
On the third day, I name it—the feeling.
Longing.
For him. For love. For the parts of myself that feel lost without him.
For a life I might never have. Might never deserve.
On the fourth day, Madelyn calls. I see her name. I know what it means. I let it ring.
On the fourth day, Hannah calls—and I cling to it like a lifeline.
On the fourth day, when my phone rings, I pray it’s him.
On the fourth day, I realize I need him. Desperately.
On the fourth day, I rename it. The feeling.
Loss.