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I’ll never know. But I’ll be back.

Tomorrow. The day after. And the day after that.

And maybe one day, I’ll stop being too much of a coward to fix it.

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. Iwon’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.