Chapter 52
Haiyden
It’s the same routine. Every day.
Weeks have passed since I last saw her, and what used to be mornings filled with warm coffee, lavender shampoo, and breathless, shaking moans has turned into something vacant.
Something that aches.
The February air is brutal—freezing and dry, numbing my skin on the thirty-minute walk to Calla’s apartment.
But I don’t care. I welcome it.
It’s a penance. A punishment I refuse to stop.
When I reach her building, I unlatch the main door easily.
It used to unsettle me—how vulnerable that made her. I used to think it meant she needed me. Like I could protect her.
Now, I’m just grateful it lets me in.
I take the stairs two at a time, the old steps creaking beneath my weight.
At her door, I pause.
I set everything down carefully—like it means something .
Because it does.
First, the coffee: black drip, splash of cold water. Just enough to make it drinkable right away.
Then, the pastry: the kind she used to bring to the bar, back when she was still working her way in without even trying.
It never changes.
It can’t.
Last, the butterfly.
Bright orange. A little crooked at the wings now.
I’m getting sloppier. Some mornings, I fold them three times before I leave the house. My hands don’t work the same as they used to.
They shake more.
I don’t even know why I started. Maybe because Willow taught me. Maybe because I tried to teach Calla.
Maybe because butterflies mean something—freedom, hope, joy.
Everything she gave me. Everything I’m desperate to give back.
It’s stupid. A paper fucking prayer. But I leave it anyway. Because I don’t know what else to do.
I hover longer than I should. I always do. But I can’t help but wonder…
Does she know I’m here? Does she ever think about opening the door?
My hand floats above the wood.
I could knock.
Would she answer?
Would she look at me like she missed me?
Or worse—would she look at me like I’m something to be afraid of?
I lower my hand, turning to leave—
Then I freeze.
The hallway light flicks on inside her apartment. A thin strip of gold spills out beneath the door. Footsteps. A shadow.
My heart slams against my ribs.
What would I even say?
Calla, I’m sorry.
Calla, I love you.
I’ve always loved you.
Calla, please.
But none of it would be enough.
I hold my breath.
Please, Calla. Just open the door.
The shadow pauses—
Then moves away.
The light clicks off.
I stay there for a moment longer, something sharp pressing against my ribs. Like something inside me is shattering, and no one’s around to hear it.
One more second. Maybe two.
But it’s over.
She’s not coming.
And the feeling settles over me like wet concrete.
I should’ve told her a long time ago, before it got this far. Before it made me into this.
I turn away.
I can’t keep doing this .
But I will.
I already know I will.
I wonder what she thinks when she opens the door.
If she rolls her eyes. If she picks up the coffee. If she drinks it. If she crushes the butterfly in her hand—or tucks it away somewhere I’ll never see.
I don’t know.
And it’s fucking killing me.
I take the stairs, down and out, but I don’t leave right away.
I stop at the curb and look up at the building. I don’t even know which window is hers. But it doesn’t matter.
I still look for her.
The street is starting to come alive—cars backing out of driveways, a woman walking her dog, a few runners jogging past.
No one notices me standing there, though. They never do.
It hits me, then.
I’m doing the same thing my dad used to do. Waiting. Watching. Hovering outside someone’s life like I’m owed a piece of it.
He told me once that my silence was my safety.
I didn’t want to believe him. But maybe that’s where it begins—with fear disguised as loyalty.
I promised I’d never be like him. I couldn’t be.
But standing here—hands in my pockets, hoping for a glimpse of her—
I don’t know anymore.
He acted. He took. He crossed a line and didn’t look back.
This is different.
Isn’t it?
I start the walk back toward my apartment, hands shoved deep into my pockets, thoughts circling the same loop.
The coffee. The scone. The butterfly.
The way she might be watching. The way she might not be.
I’ll never know. But I’ll be back.
Tomorrow. The day after. And the day after that.
And maybe one day, I’ll stop being too much of a coward to fix it.