Chapter 54 #2
Every night, they eat dinner, then curl up on the couch and watch a movie. They always ask me to join. Always make space.
I used to say no. Used to make excuses. But lately, I don’t have the energy to resist.
And honestly ?
I don’t want to.
The dim glow of the family room TV spills into the kitchen—a quiet invitation. The pull of my favorite childhood blanket, the worn-in dip in my usual spot. It calls to me like a memory I don’t want to let go of.
By the time I finish the dishes and walk in, my spot is already waiting.
A wine glass.
A small bowl of popcorn.
An unspoken offer—like they knew I’d come around.
My parents sit at the opposite end of the sectional, tucked beneath a thick blanket. Their socked feet peek out, lazily propped on the coffee table in a mismatched pattern—their legs clearly tangled beneath the fabric.
My dad’s hand rests between them, fingers loosely linked with my mom’s.
Casual. Easy.
Like it’s second nature to hold on.
The opening credits roll, and without looking away from the screen, my dad lifts their joined hands and presses a soft kiss to my mom’s fingers before resting them back between them.
Like he does every night.
I see the love between them. The ease of it.
Will I ever have that?
Will I ever feel that kind of happiness again?
The movie blurs by in a wash of color and sound, scenes floating across the screen without sinking in.
Before I know it, my parents are stretching, folding their blanket, tidying up.
“I got it,” I offer, waving them toward bed.
And I do. I’ve got it.
But I sit there for a few more minutes, stuck in place as the credits roll.
When the screen finally goes black, I blink back to reality.
I push to my feet, set the empty wine glass next to the half-finished bottle on the coffee table, then gather their dishes.
The quiet clink of glass against ceramic fills the kitchen as I rinse them and slip each one into the dishwasher. Then I return for my own glass and the bottle, hitting the lights with my shoulder on the way out.
I tell myself the same thing every night. It’s just a nightcap. Just something to help me sleep.
But I know the truth.
I’m going to start thinking about him, and I don’t want to feel it.
Still, I drain the bottle, tipping the last few drops into my glass, stretching it out as long as I can.
Sometimes I wonder if I overreacted. If I should’ve stayed. If I should’ve demanded answers instead of running.
But every time I think about the way he looked at me when he said her name, when he said he didn’t do it—like it broke him—I remember why I couldn’t.
Because if he was telling the truth, then I lost her. But if he wasn’t… then I lost him too. And I couldn’t survive both.
When the wine’s warmth finally dulls the edges, it feels like enough. That’s when I do the one thing I know I shouldn’t.
I sink to the floor beside my bed, moving slowly until I’m cross-legged, my back to the door. I don’t have to look to know exactly where it is. I keep it in the same place every night.
To anyone else, it’s just an old shoebox.
To me, it’s something else entirely.
My fingers hover over the lid before I ease it open. Even in the dim night light, the contents seem to glow.
A delicate pile of folded paper. Fragile things.
The box of butterflies.
Every single one he made for me.
I don’t know why I kept them. I should’ve thrown them away. But somehow, it felt wrong—like they mattered too much.
My fingertips skim the edge of the box.
I shouldn’t reach inside. I know that.
But I do.
I pluck one from the top, turning it over carefully, tracing the sharp, perfect folds with my thumb.
The wings feel weightless in my hand.
And suddenly, I’m not in my bedroom anymore.
We used to drive together.
All the time. It became a part of us—a quiet ritual we never talked about but always returned to.
Sometimes we had nowhere to go, just looping aimlessly through town. Other times, we took the long way, stretching the drive as far as we could, even when we knew it would just end at one of our apartments.
It was never about the destination.
It was about the space we made between.
A world of our own—separate from the neighbors’ noise, the creaking floors, the muffled lives happening just beyond the walls .
It was ours—just existing together.
Existing together was enough.
Haiyden always let me DJ. I started planning for it—curating playlists in anticipation of our next drive so I wouldn’t have to think. So I could just be with him.
It became my language.
My way of showing him who I was—my moods, my favorite songs, the ones that reminded me of things I loved, and things I hated.
We didn’t talk much during those drives. We didn’t need to.
Not about the big things. Not out loud.
But through the music, I could feel him listening. Like he understood the parts of me I didn’t know how to explain.
He never asked to pick the songs. Never touched the aux.
He just tapped his fingers on the steering wheel during the upbeat ones and reached for my hand during the sad ones.
And always— always —his arm rested across the center console, fingers grazing my thigh, tracing patterns.
At first, I thought it was a habit. Something mindless.
But after a while, I started noticing the rhythm—the way his fingers followed the same loops, the same curves, starting and ending in the same places each time.
Like he was writing something only he could read.
That last drive, it’s like he knew I was catching on. Knew I was wondering if it meant something.
He glanced at me—this glint in his eye, mischievous and knowing—and gently took my hand in his, pressing it down over my thigh. Holding it there.
And every time we hit a stop sign, no matter how rare, they all became the same thing:
An excuse to pull me in.
He kissed me with this kind of hunger—like he’d been waiting for days, for weeks.
Like he couldn’t help himself.
Like he couldn’t stop.
He did it again and again. Every stop, he dragged me closer. Kissed me like he was starving.
And once, when the road stretched out empty in front of us, nothing but darkness ahead, he did something else.
He didn’t stop.
He just slowed down—barely—and lifted his hand, threading his fingers through my hair, tugging me toward him with a rough pull. Kissing me deeply.
I laughed, breathless. “Oh my God, watch the road! There wasn’t even a stop sign!”
He just tightened his grip, pulling me closer.
“Didn’t need one,” he whispered, brushing his lips over mine before kissing me again—slower this time, his tongue tracing the curve of my mouth.
He pulled over after that, into a little turnout on the side of the road.
The evening had deepened into night, the world around us still and quiet.
His fist was still tangled in my hair. His urgency poured into me.
He kissed me harder. Deeper. And it said everything we’d never spoken out loud.
I barely registered the click of his seatbelt. I was already crawling over the console, fumbling with his jeans—needing more.
It had been so easy to love him then.
So effortless.
I sigh, blinking myself back into reality. The room feels too quiet now. Too still. Like I’m still in that car—but we hit the brakes too hard, and everything stopped.
My fingers tighten around the butterfly, clutching it like it’s the last piece of him I have.
Like letting go would mean losing him all over again.
I trace the delicate folds, again and again—until I pull too hard.
One of the wings rips straight down the middle.
A clean, precise tear.
It feels like a sign. A warning. A punishment.
A reminder that I’m fooling myself.
I’ll never really let him go.