Chapter 54
Calla
It’s been three months since I left.
My hand rests on the doorknob of my childhood bedroom, but I can’t bring myself to twist it. To push it open. To walk downstairs.
It feels like I’ve slipped backward in time—sinking into the same quiet sadness I thought I’d outgrown.
The same ache.
The same longing for something better.
Like I’m seventeen again—only this time, I’ve forgotten how to swim. And every step toward the rest of the world feels like wading through water.
Every attempt knocked back by an unseen current.
The smell of buttered toast and coffee climbs the stairs, curling under my door—familiar and unchanged.
But it’s still not enough to pull me forward.
Maybe I could just stay in bed. Let the day pass me by. Pretend the last year never happened. The truth is, it already feels like a fogged-up memory—something I can barely grasp .
The coffee smells exactly the same. A little burnt, the way it always did—
When I was in high school.
When I came home from college.
When I stood in this same kitchen, trying to shake the same heaviness pressing down on me now.
For years, I blamed the brand. Eventually, I realized it was probably the pot itself—old and overused, its warmth soaked into the fabric of this house like everything else that’s lasted.
When I finally push the door open and tread downstairs, the scent of toast wraps around me.
It’s never smelled like anyone else’s. Only here. Only home.
It took me an embarrassing amount of time to realize my mom adds honey—just a touch of sweetness mixed into the butter.
I used to make it when I missed her.
Stepping into the kitchen, I find her at the stove, absently pushing eggs around in a pan. I know they’ll be cooked perfectly—like always.
My dad stands beside her at the counter, scrolling through his phone, tilting the screen toward her as they laugh at something together. A photo. A video. A moment.
It’s so simple. So easy.
They’re just happy .
It’s been this way for as long as I can remember—their quiet morning ritual, their steady kind of contentment.
For a second, it feels like nothing’s changed. Like I’m back in high school, before everything got hard. Before life got complicated.
Like I haven’t lost anything at all.
And maybe that’s the hardest part .
It feels too normal. Too much like I never left.
After a few moments of standing in the doorway, watching them move in their familiar rhythm, I finally step into the kitchen, making myself known.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” my mom says, her voice warm—laced with sugar and optimism.
I’ve always envied that about her. How easily she sounds so light, no matter what the day brings.
As I pass by, my dad reaches out and knuckles my hair—his greeting just as casual.
“Morning, Cal.”
I watch as my mom moves through the kitchen with the ease born of years of repetition. She grabs a mug and pours me a cup of coffee, then adds a splash of cold water—just enough to cool it, exactly how I like it.
She sets it in front of me like it’s nothing, just muscle memory.
The weight of that small, unspoken gesture presses tightly in my chest.
She remembers.
From the corner of my eye, I catch my dad watching. His gaze flicks between me and the coffee, and I brace myself before he even speaks.
“Ready to join society today?” he smirks. I know it’s meant as teasing—that he doesn’t truly mean it.
But it still lands harder than it should.
I’m trying. I promise, I’m trying.
He doesn’t press though.
They go back to their articles, their videos, their photos .
They just exist—happy. Living.
I sit at the kitchen table, wrapping my hands around the warm mug, willing the heat to sink into my bones.
Within minutes, a plate of perfectly cooked eggs slides across the table toward me.
No words. Just another quiet, familiar act of care.
Why did I run?
I could’ve stayed. I could’ve been safe here.
But then I remember why I left.
The tears. The emptiness. The blues. The guilt of dragging them down with me.
Breakfast doesn’t last long—just a few short exchanges, a couple murmured thank-yous.
And then I retreat.
Back up the stairs. Back into the quiet of my bedroom.
Each creaky step feels like a warning. A whisper that today has to be different. That today has to be the day I actually try.
I grab my laptop and settle cross-legged on the bed, opening it like I have a plan. Like I have direction.
The first thing I do is close out the dozens of tabs I’ve left open for weeks—maybe even months. Digital clutter. Lingering proof of half-hearted attempts to figure out my life.
Today, I start fresh.
I pull up job listings, scrolling through endless descriptions, but nothing clicks. A few sound mildly interesting, but none of them feel like a future.
None of them feel like my future.
Because the only time I ever pictured one—the only time I ever let myself believe in something beyond just surviving—
Was with him.
I clench my jaw and push it away before I spiral.
I can’t think about him. I won’t.
I bookmark a few leads, but I don’t apply. It feels too final. Too permanent. And right now, I’m barely holding onto the pieces of myself as it is.
So I scroll. I read. I let the hours slip by, sifting through options I don’t care about.
I’m not starting from scratch. Not really.
I’ve freelanced—small, one-off tasks. Just enough to keep going. Just enough to convince myself I’m not falling apart.
Because if I stop moving, even for a second, I might not be able to start again.
By mid-afternoon, whatever focus I had has crumbled. I’ve gone from sitting upright and semi-productive to lying flat on my stomach, face buried in the mattress, laptop abandoned somewhere beside me.
Now it’s doom-scrolling—puppy videos, random threads, distractions to fill the tightness in my chest.
The sun starts to dip.
Shadows stretch across my bedroom walls.
Another day, wasted.
Is this what moving on is supposed to feel like?
Because it doesn’t feel like moving.
I’m just stuck.
And I know I need to do something—anything—to break the cycle.
Realizing I’m running out of daylight, I force myself upright. I need air. I need movement. At least thirty minutes outside, where my thoughts can breathe without suffocating me.
It’s a rule I’ve given myself:
If I’m in public, I won’t break down. I won’t collapse. I won’t scream.
And if I don’t walk—
I’m not allowed to feel it.
The air outside is crisp—cool enough to wake me up a little—but my steps are sluggish. Each one is intentional. A push forward when everything inside me wants to stand still.
As I move down familiar streets, my eyes wander, tracing the houses that haven’t changed in years.
It’s strange, how everything stays the same even when you don’t.
I see it in flashes—the past overlaying the present like a memory projected on glass.
My younger self, running barefoot across front yards. Knocking on neighbors’ doors. Asking if they could play.
Back then, the tears only came when the day ended. When streetlights flickered on and we had to go home.
I guess that’s what happened with Haiyden.
The tears came. And I had to go home.
By the time I loop back around, my skin is damp with sweat. Maybe I picked up speed without realizing it.
Or maybe I’m just carrying too much—and it’s leaking out any way it can.
Either way, I feel raw. Scraped empty, like I’m walking around inside the shell of myself.
I push open the front door, already thinking about a shower—
But the smell in the air stops me cold.
My stomach pangs—not from hunger, but from recognition.
Not just any soup. My mom’s. The kind she used to make when I was little. On sick days. On sad days.
She’s been making a lot of my favorites lately. I’ve noticed, even if I haven’t said anything.
Some nights, it’s hard to get the food down. Hard to swallow past the lump in my throat.
But this? This is too much.
It feels like acknowledgement.
Like she sees me. Like she knows that I’m not okay. That I need comfort in a way no one else can give me.
I step into the kitchen slowly, my feet quiet against the tile.
My mom stands at the stove, dropping clumps of batter into a steaming pot. The sight of it breaks something in me.
This was the meal I needed. The night I left. The night Jules died. The night Haiyden disappeared.
And now that it’s here, it feels too much like love.
There’s a shift in the air behind me, and I don’t even register my dad’s voice until he finishes speaking.
“Smells good, right?” His tone is easy, casual.
But then he adds, “She hasn’t made it since you left.”
The words hit like a slow, sinking weight.
I was missed. I was wanted.
And I left something good—
For something that almost destroyed me.
People always ask why someone wouldn’t speak up. Why they’d leave instead of pointing fingers .
But what do you say when the only proof you have is a look? A silence? A name dropped at the wrong time?
I didn’t leave because I thought he killed her.
I left because I couldn’t live in the uncertainty anymore.
I left because I loved him too much to ask.
And I hated myself for that.
We eat together in silence. My parents don’t ask questions—they know I don’t want to talk about it, even if they’re not exactly sure what it is.
I’m sure it’s its own kind of heartbreak—watching your already-broken daughter leave, only for her to return even more shattered than before.
So they talk about themselves instead, filling the space with easy conversation.
And lately, I’ve started to feel guilty for it. Like I’ve missed more than a few pieces of their lives. Like I lost something I can’t get back.
When the conversation fades and our bowls are empty, I push back from the table, gathering the dishes before they can insist.
The quiet clatter of utensils and the rush of water from the sink fill the silence. Behind me, I hear the soft pop of a wine bottle, the crinkle of cellophane, then the hum of the microwave heating a bag of popcorn.
It’s their thing.