Chapter 57
Haiyden
It’s been seven months and three days since she left.
The news broke two weeks ago, and my dad’s name has been plastered across every headline since.
This morning feels the same as all the others. I drag myself out of bed, the weight of the last months pressing down on me.
Chase is still asleep. Margot’s just starting to stir, untangling herself from the blankets.
Everything’s adjusted. The world kept moving. We found a routine. Built something steady.
But the silence hits like a freight train.
I go through the motions. Get up. Get dressed.
Pull on a clean shirt and shorts without thinking too hard—without looking. Not at my bed. Not at Margot. Not at the empty space where Calla used to be.
I feel her absence. Every goddamn day.
The thought grips me, and with it comes the flood—each wave carving into what’s left of me, cracking at my edges, threatening to break me open.
Mornings with Margot are the only thing that feel close to normal. She’s settled now—happier than she was at the start—though she still side-eyes me every time I pull the blankets off her, forcing her out of bed.
She grumbles, then crawls into my lap—warm and weighty. And for a second, it helps.
I scratch behind her ears. There’s love there. Real love.
But it’s not enough.
I’m trying to fill an emptiness that refuses to stay full. Trying to pour love into a space that only drains in its absence.
Even Margot’s unconditional love can’t fill the hole Calla left behind.
I’m always fighting.
With myself. With my past. With the world.
Fighting to push away the guilt, the longing, the memories that still threaten to spill over and break me wide open.
It’s better now.
Not like the first few weeks.
Back then, I spiraled—drank it away, shut it all out.
Now I’ve settled into something quieter.
I still struggle, but I function.
I feed Margot and take her for a quick walk. When we get back, she waits patiently while I unclip her leash—
Then bolts.
Racing laps around the living room in a blur. And just as fast, she’s gone, sprinting down the hall.
I hear the rustle of sheets as she jumps into my bed, burrows into the blankets, and finds her spot.
She’ll be there when I get home later. She always is.
I was supposed to switch back to nights this week.
Chase and I talked about it—how he thought I was ready. How “immersing myself back into society” might be good for me.
But I didn’t tell him what I did. Didn’t warn him about the oncoming storm.
The news broke.
And the town went crazy.
I figured it would happen eventually. I just didn’t know when.
I remember watching the headlines roll in, his name flashing across every screen. I shut off my phone. Turned off the TV. Started cooking dinner.
For the first time in months, the silence felt like peace.
Then Chase came bursting through the front door.
The sound slammed through the apartment, echoing hard off the walls. Margot leapt off the couch, hackles raised, ready to defend—but when she realized it was Chase, she sniffed him once and trotted back to me, curling up at my feet as I stood at the stove.
“Before you see the news—” Chase started, breathless.
“I did it.”
“You what ?”
“I couldn’t do it anymore.” I turned to face him. “It wasn’t my secret to protect. And it damn sure wasn’t mine to answer for.”
For a long second, he just stared at me, processing. Then he crossed the kitchen and pulled me into a hug, arms locked tight.
And I gave in to it. Let the comfort in. Hugged him just as hard and didn’t bother pretending I was okay .
When I finally pulled away, I realized something—he was waiting for me to let go first.
He shifted his weight, exhaling. “Stay on mornings. Just keep your head down for now.”
I nodded. I knew what he meant.
Avoid the chaos. The questions. The whispers.
When our eyes met again, we didn’t need to say anything else. We knew what happened. The damage. The war. The peace.
“I left Tanner alone. I gotta run back,” Chase said quietly. “Call if you need anything. Seriously.”
This morning, the bar is quiet.
Lately, even the monotony feels like something I can hold on to. There’s order in the repetition. I don’t want excitement anymore—don’t want anything that might shake the fragile balance I’ve managed to keep.
But something about today feels… wrong.
I try to stay busy, but my mind keeps drifting back to her.
Where she is.
If she’s okay.
What she’s thinking now that everything is out in the open.
If she even knows.
I make it through most of the morning. The busy work carries me just far enough to hold off the worst of it.
I’m finishing up paperwork in the back, head down, when I hear a soft knock at the door.
My body goes still. Frustration coils in my chest.
It happens sometimes—reporters, strangers, people poking around for details they don’t deserve. Always looking for a soundbite. A reaction.
I hesitate. Tell myself to ignore it. Choose peace.
But it comes again. Louder.
I exhale sharply, already rehearsing how I’m going to shut it down. The last thing I need is another round of questions.
I stride to the door, head down, grip the handle, and pull it open without thinking.
And my world stops.
Calla.
She’s standing there, backlit by sunlight.
Her long red hair falls in windswept waves over one shoulder—tangled, unruly in that perfectly imperfect way I never understood but always loved.
The pieces that usually frame her face are tucked behind her ears, like she’s been fidgeting.
Like she doesn’t know whether to hide or fully step into the light.
She’s healthy.
It’s the first thing I notice, and the relief hits hard.
I remember how she looked before—fragile, withdrawn, barely eating. But now, she’s steady on her feet. There’s strength in her frame. A softness that wasn’t there before.
Like someone else has been taking care of her.
That thought alone nearly undoes me.
But sadness clings to her.
Her green eyes flick to the floor, hidden behind her lashes—still burning with that quiet intensity I know too well. But the light in them, the spark, is gone. Like it’s been snuffed out. Like it might never come back.
Her skin is the same pale shade I remember, but there’s warmth now. Color. A flush from the sun that brings out her freckles. She’s always had them, but now they’re darker. More defined. Scattered across her cheeks and nose in a way I swear wasn’t there before.
I want to count them. Kiss every single one that’s bloomed while she’s been away.
She’s still the woman I fell hopelessly in love with. But she’s not the same.
And when the earth finally feels like it starts spinning again, she stays at the center of it.
I can’t look away.
Without thinking, I move toward her, nearly tripping over myself to close the distance. But at the last second, I stop—
Hands jerking back before I can reach for her. Before I can risk scaring her away.
I just need her to stay.
“You’re safe… you’re here…”
My voice is hoarse.
It’s all I can manage beneath the flood of emotions crashing over me—relief, desperation, a need so deep it borders on unbearable.
I’ve dreamed of this moment.
Ached for it.
But now that she’s here, she’s unreadable. Her expression is blank, eyes guarded.
But there’s something different about the way she stands—something you’d only notice if you knew her like I did.
Strength.
“I saw the news,” she says.
Her voice is steady. But there’s caution there. Distrust, too .
Still, she’s not closed off. Not completely.
There’s a thread of possibility—
Like she might be willing to hear me out.
I nod and step aside, wordlessly inviting her in.
She walks past me, her footsteps loud against the bar’s floor. And for the first time, I realize this moment isn’t going to be what I pictured.
I see it in the way her eyes skim the room. In the way she hesitates. In the way her gaze moves to the low table—her table—then moves away.
I hold my breath, waiting. Hoping.
Sending up a silent prayer that she’ll sit, curl into the chair like she always did. Like it still belongs to her.
It does.
But she doesn’t.
She turns to face me instead, arms crossed tightly over her chest. And when she speaks, her voice is firm. Not cruel—just final.
“I didn’t come here for you.”