The Storm That Never Came

We arrived at the lake of Châtrices after half a day’s hike. I let my backpack fall onto the picnic table with a thud. It felt so heavy like I was carrying rocks all day. I kicked off my shoes, and wiggled my toes until life returned into them.

He rolled a blanket across a patch of ground where the midday sun slipped through the crown of the trees, scattering shadows like lace.

"Komorebi." he said as he gave me his warmest smile. "A Japanese term form sunlight filtering through leaves."

We ate our lunch in silence, watching the lake. The air was warm, a swan glided past, fish leapt from the water like silver coins.

I rested my hand over his, traced the length of his fingers.

Everything was serene, and almost impossibly perfect. I had never felt so alive, so loved.

But then something shifted.

I could feel it in the air — something was in preparation, but I couldn't quite name it. Subtle, like water just beginning to boil: the surface looked calm, but beneath the bubbles were forming.

I turned to him— his eyes closed, face tilted toward the dappled light, the komorebi highlighting that spot on his cheek that I like to kiss.

(Why are you so damn perfect?)

I turned back to the lake and looked over the trees. The sky was dimming, shadows gathering at the horizon. And then it hit me. A storm was approaching.

Not the type that can be forecasted by the weather report, that comes with a pour-down of rain, and gusts of wind, branches hitting your window, lightning illuminating your room at night like a sudden searchlight.

But the kind I’d learned to sense before anyone else—the kind you feel in your bones.

This storm hits like a hurricane, leaving nothing but destruction behind. Ignited by an ambiguous word, a glimpse on someone you don't even notice as they pass by, an unwashed knife resting on the edge of the sink, a misplaced cup or something you didn't find at the grocery store for him.

The storm alert turned on inside me.

I kept looking at him over my shoulder. He was laying on the blanket, sniffing evenly as he drifted away to dreamland, the shadow and the light still dancing on his face.

So peaceful.

At first, I tried to ignore the feeling, but my hand tightened around his. I had to let it go before I'd hold onto him too tight and wake him.

I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. The waves of the water always calmed me, but now it failed miserably.

My body remembered something my mind didn’t want to. My muscles tightened more and more, a knot grew in my stomach, my heart was pounding, my breath became shallow and rapid — panic was taking over.

The water still glittered; he still breathed slow, steady breaths beside me while I was trembling.

I could almost hear it—the shouting, the crash of doors, the unexpected explosion of rage. My nervous system was wired for it.

"The best defense is attack", my dad used to say.

I wanted to punch him— to wake him up and shout at him. I wanted to provoke him by making a scene out of nothing, so I can get to him before he could get to me.

But I didn't.

I was waiting and waiting for him to wake up and snap at me. The silence felt unbearable, unnatural.

He pushed himself up on his elbows after a while, blinked at me with dreamy eyes, then kissed me on my forehead.

I smiled but inside I was screaming.

I built my defense for the storm — I laid planks across my windows. I laced my soul with sandbags to keep the raging river at bay. But for what? Nothing?

(What is this? What's going on?)

I started to get upset — angry even.

"You snored like a bear" — I laughed. I had to poke the sleeping lion. Let's get over with it as quickly as we can. I hate the waiting period.

"Yeah? Well, sorry if I bothered you with it." — Another kiss landed on my forehead.

(Fuck, man! How can you respond with kindness to everything!?)

My blood was boiling with fury.

(Why doesn't he yell? Why doesn't he call me names?

Why doesn't he make me feel like I'm a failure of a girlfriend or like something's wrong with me?)

So far, he kept shocking me every day. Like last night when he washed the dishes because I cooked dinner.

"It's only fair if you cook for me that I do it." — he said when I pointed out this abnormal behaviour. He looked at me bewildered — why would I wonder about such a natural thing?

(What is the game he's playing? I don't know the rules.)

The longer the calm, the bigger the storm — that I already learned. So of course I was frightened of what will pour down at me.

But nothing ever happened. It was always quiet, followed by calm.

(Why he's never yelling with me?)

I was about to explode.

I told him I had "business to handle". I took a roll of toilet paper as my alibi and disappeared into the bush, as deep as I could go.

I collapsed at the roots of an old oak, set my back to its trunk. The bark pressed firm against my spine, as if to remind me I wasn’t alone. I started to weep.

I was so full with pain, it felt like it could split me open.

(What's wrong with me? Why can’t I rest in the quiet I once prayed for?)

Suddenly I remembered how people used to envy me for a man who once adored me. He showered me with expensive gifts, took me to fancy restaurants, to vacation in a castle in Venezia and created the perfect image of us.

I was the center of attention like a celebrity on pedestal when others were watching, while at home I lived in a war zone — with him being my personal Mussolini.

The moment the audience turned away I was cast aside, kicked back into the shadows behind the spotlight.

And here, now—this man loves me in silence. He doesn't place me on the pedestal, yet makes me feel like the queen of his little world. Not with grand gestures, but with simple kindness and soft love. He offers me safety and steadiness—and calls it nothing special.

And I wondered: is this even normal? But it doesn't feel boring, nor dull. It felt simple, and very much real.

(But then, why am I waiting for a storm that never arrives?)

The war was over, but my body hadn’t heard the news yet.

It all started to make sense. It was nothing but my mind projecting its fears onto the canvas of reality, and my body reacting like it was actually happening in the moment.

I let a great sigh out as I lifted my head back, leaning into the stable support of grandmother oak.

My inner storm has passed. I cried it out.

I started to laugh. I wiped my tears and replaced them with a smile as I returned to the lakeside, and slipped back beneath his arm.

The water was still shimmering, the dark edge of the cloud still lingering on the margins, but it no longer terrified me.

"Everything looks different from far away", some people say.

What might appear like a storm cloud can be nothing more but a shadow, the projections of the brain. A ghost of a memory that still haunts us, the phantom pain of past connections.

What felt off was never him, nor our relationship — it was the old wiring of trauma still bracing in me for impact. My nervous system still re-learning, adapting to the unusual feeling of a love that is quiet, private and safe.

And the gray cloud was slowly carried away by the gentle breeze, and the tension in me released in his embrace. It was time to go.

My bag felt light like I unpacked those rocks I carried all day, and replaced them with newfound wisdom: quiet love is still love, safety can be trusted and I am, at last, allowed to be at peace.

I took a final glance at the shimmering lake before we walked away.

It was a damn fine day, after all.