17

People often talk about the calm before the storm. That strange phenomenon where the wind ceases, the birds and insects get quiet, and everything else is cast in an eerie stillness. It's a warning from nature, announcing that trouble is coming, and you need to find refuge.

The world holds a collective breath, urging you to hide from the impending disaster.

I got no such warning.

No one mentions the calm after the storm. The peaceful devastation after the trees and houses have been floored and entire towns are buried beneath mounds of debris and rubble. The quiet mourning of the breeze blowing over the bones and skeletons of what was once something more than dust.

Sunlight timidly emerges from behind dark clouds, not wanting to shine a light on the brokenness that lies before it, but understanding that this is life.

It's nature.

As much as we'd like to rebel against nature, it isn't permitted.

We aren't allowed.

And me?

I stand at the horizon, begging the storm to return and sweep me away with its fury.

The party is a carousel that spins around me, sitting at a table in the back of the room. Round and round they all go, Eric and Dmitri in the center of the dance floor, so wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world doesn't exist.

Déjà vu is a cruel mistress.

Their wedding was beautiful—low-key and intimate, despite Theo's multiple attempts to add pizzazz to the ceremony. This was a simple affair, only celebrated with friends and family.

Not a lilac suit in sight.

They didn't have a wedding party, since their group of close friends is shared. Instead, I was behind the piano, with Dante and Theo joining me for a few pieces. We'd planned the music for months, but in the days leading up to the event, Eric was worried I wasn't prepared to play.

A million times, he asked if I was sure.

A million times, I told him to fuck off because, despite my heartbreak, I would never leave him hanging.

Once I threatened to add a Rickroll in the middle of the entrance music, he finally got the hint.

Playing helped keep my mind off Cho's wedding, but now that my hands are no longer occupied, memories are creeping through my weak defenses.

I run my fingers through my hair, still adjusting to the lack of resistance from my long locks. My plan backfired, because instead of setting me free from Connor's hold, the short strands just make me remember why I did it.

I'm stuck.

Numb.

I shove my hand in my pocket, clutching my phone as the world revolves around me. Everyone else moves and spins in a blur, but I remain motionless in this sea of activity. I pull my phone out and fixate on the number I dialed several days ago.

This has become my daily routine—stare at the numbers like a hidden message waits inside them. A code that I have yet to crack; undeciphered explanations to tell me something I don't already know.

Secret meanings that could provide relief from this constant pain.

My fingers move over the keyboard before I allow myself to stop and consider the consequences, and my thumb hovers over the send button for just a split second before I push it.

TAI

I'm so fucking mad at you. Mad that I can't stop thinking about you, and mad that after every horrible thing you've done, I still miss you. I think about you all the fucking time, and I hate it.

But most of all?

I hate that I'd do it again. I hate that if you just asked, I'd forgive you for everything. I hate that I'd still choose you.

My heart thrashes in my chest as the circle spins, and then it displays a tiny red exclamation mark. I choke out a bitter laugh when I hit send again and it errors a second time. He figured out who called him after all, and he did what any man in his shoes would and blocked my number.

He pretended it never happened.

Pretended that he didn't rip my heart right out of my chest and run away with it in the night.

Someone calls my name from across the room, and I glance up to find Theo's smiling face waving for me to join him. I hold my finger up and walk to the bar.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asks, and my eyes slide over the dozens of bottles on the wall behind him.

"Got any banana rum?" He chuckles, arching a brow as he grabs a shot glass.

"Straight?"

"Yeah," I whisper. "Give it to me straight." He pours, and I shoot it back, then gesture for another and do the same.

A single tear rolls from my eye at the nostalgic bite of the liquor in my throat, and I tuck some bills in the tip jar as I rush to wipe it away.

I slide my mask into place.

Cool and calm and collected, but inside… inside I'm screaming.

I push it down.

Bury it.

Torch it until there's nothing left but toxic ashes in my veins. Slow-moving poison that corrodes my sanity, attacking my body at a pace so gradual that no one notices I'm dying.

I fake a smile, stitching it to my cheeks in case it falls.

Then, I dance.

And I try to forget.