Storms and Vodka and Things We Don’t Say

It was still the same day.

The same day that began with something subtle shifting inside me. A small, quiet rearranging. I had felt it earlier — like my heart was finally loosening its grip on things it didn't need to carry. I thought maybe I was healing.

But the thing about healing is — it doesn't warn you before it wavers. Doesn't hold your hand when the ache starts whispering again.

I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, arms wrapped tight around my knees, trying to hold myself together like that might be enough.The music playing was soft. Safe.

Then my phone lit up.

Nigel: "Wanna be on call for a bit?"

My chest didn't rise. It dropped.

No racing pulse. No giddy smile. Just… weight.

Because after days of silence, this was it?

No apology. No explanation. Just a casual question like we'd spoken yesterday.

My fingers twitched. My heart thudded once, quietly — like it wasn't sure if it should hope or hide.

What was I supposed to say?

Yes?

And pretend like I hadn't spent the past three nights convincing myself not to break?

I love him.

And even thou I love the love that I hold for him. It's still scary

Because love like this isn't soft anymore. It's jagged. It's heavy. It's walking barefoot through broken glass and hoping the next step won't cut as deep.

I didn't reply. I didn't even open the chat.

I just let the message sit there, buzzing in the corner of my mind like a loose wire.

I got up slowly, and poured myself a drink.

Not to forget. Not to spiral.

Just enough.

Just enough to blur the sharpest corners of my thoughts.

Just enough to sleep without replaying the same silence on loop.

But then… of course, I did what I always do.

I called him.

Of course I did.

Because part of me still wanted to hear his voice — even if it was just for a moment.

It rang once.

Twice.

Straight to voicemail.

My throat tightened. I blinked too hard.

So I called again.

And again.

One too many times.

That's when someone picked up.

But it wasn't Nigel.

A voice — someone from his family. Caught off guard. Confused.

I froze.

Didn't say a word.

Not even hello.

My body went cold with shame, like I'd just walked into a room I wasn't allowed in.

I hung up without a sound.

And for a second, everything inside me fell completely, completely silent.

The kind of silence that doesn't soothe — it shames.

I sat there staring at the screen, blinking at my own reflection in the black glass. My cheeks were flushed. My stomach was in knots. I wanted to throw the phone against the wall. Instead, I placed it down beside me like it might explode if I touched it again.

Why did I do that?

Why do I always do that?

I just wanted connection. Comfort. Reassurance.

Not a stranger picking up the call I was too afraid to explain.

I hated myself in that moment.

But I also ached for the version of me that was just lonely — not reckless.

---

9:52 a.m.

I hadn't slept again. Not really. Just drifted in and out. The rain was still falling outside. The air was too quiet.

I picked up my phone — again.

Because even though I was scared, I still wanted to say something.

So I typed:

"I'm sorry I called yesterday. I didn't know someone else would pick up."

Sent.

Then waited.

Two minutes.

Five.

Then the reply came.

He was furious.

Of course he was.

I read the words over and over again, my stomach tightening with each line.

He had every right to be angry. I know that.

It was justified.

But I didn't mean for it to go like that. I didn't do it on purpose.

That's the thing with me though — every time I try not to be a burden, I somehow become one.

Every time I try to protect someone, I end up being the reason they need protection.

Now I know.

He hated me.

At least now, in this moment, he did.

He saw me as something that messed things up. And maybe he was right.

"I'm sorry, Nigel. I really am."

That was the last thing I wrote.

Then I threw the phone — not violently, just away from me. Like I couldn't stand the weight of it anymore.

It landed on the floor with a dull thud. I didn't look to see where it fell.

I just curled up on my side, hugging the edge of my pillow and staring at nothing.

And the thought hit me like thunder in my chest.

Maybe I think my life is a mess, but in the meantime, I make everyone else's worse.

Maybe I wasn't just broken.

Maybe I was breaking things around me too.

I started blaming myself — again.

And I knew — I knew — what would come next.

Not because I was overthinking.

Because I'd done this before.

I've been here too many times.

And every time, the same thing happens.

I mess it up.

I call too much. I need too much. I feel too much.

And then I lose him — not forever, but for a while.

We won't be on call for days now. Maybe more.

Not because he's cruel.

But because I did something wrong again.

Not in his eyes — in mine.

I know the pattern.

I've walked this road too many times to pretend I don't see where it leads.

---

10:04 a.m.

Only ten in the morning, and it already feels like I've lived three lifetimes inside my head today.

Time stretches when you're sad.

Minutes feel like hours.

Seconds ache like days.

Was I still gloomy?

I don't even know.

I was still trying.

I whispered to myself, "Rue, breathe."

Like saying it could make the panic disappear.

"Stop the anxiety. Stop thinking."

But my brain didn't listen.

I wanted to cry.

I wanted to scream into my pillow.

I wanted to scream It wasn't my fault!

I just wanted someone to talk to.

Not just someone — him.

I wanted him.

I wanted to be told I wasn't too much. That I was allowed to need things. That I was still safe.

But I can't say that now.

Not after I messed things up — again.

I sat at the window again, watching the rain slide down the glass in soft trails.

It was still beautiful.

And I realized — this was how love felt too.

Like rain.

I love the way it smells. The way it softens everything. The way it makes the world feel closer.

But I hate the storms.

The unpredictability. The noise. The wind.

Just like I loved the sweetness in our relationship — the jokes, the care, the warmth in his voice when he wasn't tired of me.

And I hated the silences.

The distance.

The not-knowing.

But maybe, just like with rain, the storm is a part of it.

Maybe love comes with loud days. With hard moments. With mistakes.

And maybe — if I want to feel the softness again — I have to learn how to survive the storm, too.

Not by being perfect.

Not by never messing up.

But by staying.

With myself.

With him.

Even when I feel like I'm the worst version of me.

Even when the love I need doesn't come back in the way I hoped.

---

This day isn't over.

Not even close.

But it already feels heavy.

Like something has shifted again — not a beginning, not an end.

Just a crack.

A moment I'll remember later.

I don't know what will happen next.

But I do know I'm still here.

Still trying.

Still learning how not to disappear inside my own hurt.

Still learning that storms don't mean I'm broken.

They just mean I'm alive.