Chapter 53
Calla
It’s the same routine now. Every day.
Weeks have passed since I last saw him, and what used to be mornings of heavy-lipped forehead kisses, citrus and sage, and whispers between my thighs has faded into something quieter. Emptier.
My alarm goes off, but I don’t move right away. The soft beeping fills the silence, but I barely hear it.
The air is weighty. Cold. The kind that settles in and stays.
I didn’t go to the police.
What would I even say? That he might know something? That he said too little when I needed too much?
I didn’t have proof.
Just fear.
Just heartbreak.
And even now, all these weeks later, the questions linger like ghosts—quiet, dangerous things. Just like him.
I already know what’s waiting outside. I don’t need to check.
Every day, I tell myself I won’t look. I won’t open the door. I won’t acknowledge it.
And every day, I do it anyway.
My feet hit the floor. My body moves without thought.
I don’t bother getting dressed—this isn’t an occasion. It’s not something I want to remember.
Still, like always, I crack the door open—just enough to see what he’s left behind.
The coffee: steam still curling from the opening in the lid.
The pastry bag: holding a maple pecan scone, just like the ones I used to bring him.
The butterfly: bright orange. Loud. A little crumpled at the edge, like the folds didn’t come easy.
I pick up the coffee. It’s warm. Drinkable. I could take a sip.
I did once.
And it tasted like Driftwood mornings, sleepy kisses, and everything I’ve been trying so hard not to miss.
It was a mistake.
I don’t let myself slip again.
I carry it to the sink. The drain gurgles as it disappears.
The scone follows—straight into the trash. I don’t hesitate. It lands on top of everything else.
I almost push it deeper, out of sight. But that feels too much like care.
So I walk away instead.
The butterfly is always last. Still in my hand. I never realize I’m keeping it until I do.
It’s just paper. Just folded edges. It shouldn’t mean anything—
But it does. And I hate that .
I tell myself it’s not about him. That I’m keeping it for some other reason. That I don’t know what to do with it.
But that’s a lie.
And I hate that too.
I walk to the kitchen. Open the drawer.
The butterfly lands inside, swimming among the others—a mess of bright orange, tucked away like a secret that’s mine to keep.
I don’t count them. I don’t want to know.
I slam the drawer shut before I can change my mind.
The routine is infuriating—the way he keeps showing up. The way I keep letting him. It’s like he’s haunting me—close enough to feel, never close enough to touch.
He’s punishing himself. And he should.
But he doesn’t see that he’s punishing me, too.
Some mornings, my hands shake with the urge to storm downstairs—to throw the coffee in his face, to shove the butterfly back into his chest.
To scream.
To make it stop.
But I don’t.
Because facing him would mean asking for answers. And I’m still too afraid of what he might say.
There’s a part of me that still wonders what I would’ve done if I’d just let him explain.
If he’d just told me everything from the beginning.
But he didn’t.
And silence feels a lot like guilt when the stakes are life and death.
This morning is no different. I pad out of bed and flick on the hallway light as I move toward the door.
I know he’s there.
My hand hovers over the knob.
If I open it, I’ll see him—the way he looks when he waits. When he hopes. When he hurts.
What would I even say?
Leave me alone? Stop? You don’t get to do this?
I don’t know.
So I don’t say anything at all.
My fingers fall from the handle. I flick off the light and turn back toward my bedroom.
Later, when the coffee is drained, the pastry is in the trash, and the butterfly is tucked into the drawer with the rest, I’ll have peace.
For a few hours.
But tomorrow, he’ll do it all over again.
And I’ll go through it all over again.
Again and again.
But not for much longer.
After all, butterflies are a symbol of transformation. Rebirth.
New beginnings.