Halley: The Run

Halley didn’t just run.
She made it a performance.
She dove into the “shiny” guy, Kai. He was a DJ with “transient” eyes and a smile that was all neon. She wore him like a shield.

It was noise. It was freedom.

It was the exact opposite of a quiet, steady man telling her that she felt like “home.”

She was “on” again, but this time, the stage was bigger. Late nights. Loud music. Spinning stories she couldn’t say out loud. Flirtation as a deflective art. She was the “force” in her element, the “beautiful disaster” she’d joked about to Theo.

If she was a performance, no one could see the echo.

Her friends saw, of course, they did.

“He’s… a lot,” Tess said over coffee, her voice carefully neutral.

“He’s fun,” Halley said, a little too sharply. “I’m allowed to have fun, right? Or did Mira and Rowan buy up all the ‘happiness’ stock?”

Tess just sipped her coffee, not taking the bait.

“You’re allowed to have fun, Halley. Just… he looks like every other guy who’s let you down.”

“I’m a big girl. I know how to handle myself.”

“I know,” Tess said, softer. “I’m just worried you’re the only one who does. He seems… underqualified.”

Halley winced. That was her line. She hated hearing it from someone else, especially when it was true.

The new relationship was all surface, all flash. He loved her “force.” He loved her “sharp tongue.” He loved that she was a nurse with steady hands and a DJ who could own a room.

He loved the idea of her. But he didn’t see the woman underneath.

The one who was just… tired.

The one who felt the sharp, metallic pang of guilt when her fifteen-year-old daughter, Evie, just rolled her eyes and put on her headphones, disappearing into her room whenever Kai was over, his neon energy too loud for their home. Evie didn’t have to say anything; her silence was a verdict.

He loved her “strength” because it meant he never had to be strong for her.

Then there was Theo.

She kept running into him. At the grocery store.

At the park with Evie, sitting on a bench. Her daughter attempted to teach their dog not to chase squirrels. It was a rare, quiet Saturday. No force. Just… mom. And he was there. Throwing a Frisbee for his own dog. No shiny. No transient.

Just… there.

He walked over, and Kai’s neon performance felt cheap in the daylight.

“Hey, Halley. Hey, Evie.”

“Hiya Theo,” Evie said, her voice instantly brighter.

She liked him. Mira’s relationship with Rowan had expanded their social circle, and that had included Theo. He’d been a quiet, kind fixture.

“Your dog’s a menace,” Halley said, trying for her usual blunt charm.

“He’s just ambitious,” Theo Smiled. He looked at Evie. “He’ll get that squirrel one day, right?”

“Never,” Evie laughed. “He’s too slow.”

The squirrel in question seemed to sense their conversation and laughed from his perch.

They talked for a few minutes. About school. About dogs. It was… easy. The way Evie relaxed around him. The way she didn’t retreat into her headphones… it was a mirror. It showed Halley exactly what she wasn’t choosing. What she was keeping from her own daughter.

She hated it. She hated him for making her feel it.

When he walked away with a simple, “See you guys,” the “force” armor came rushing back up.

“He’s nice,” Evie offered quietly.

“He’s Rowan’s friend,” Halley said, too sharply. “Let’s go. We’re going to be late.”

Evie’s face dropped. The headphones went back on.

Then, there was the group dinner where she’d brought Kai. And Theo was maddening. He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t impressed. He didn’t compete.

He was just… annoyingly steady.

He was polite to Kai, asked him about his music with a genuine, unbothered curiosity.

And that quiet, steady decency was the mirror that made her “loud” performance feel cheap. It made her “force” feel desperate.

She’d find herself watching him talk to Jude, or laugh with Rowan, and her chest would tighten. He was a “foundation,” and she was standing on a trap door.

She hated it.
She hated him for making her feel it.

The crash was inevitable.
It always was.

It started with a thousand small cuts. Kai wasn’t just “transient”; he was selfish. He wasn’t just “shiny”; he was hollow. He’d try to “shape” her, just like her husband had all those years ago.

“Why are you going to that fundraiser thing?” he’d scoff. “It sounds boring. You should blow it off and come to my gig.”

“It’s for Evie’s school,” she’d say, her voice tight. “I’m going.”

“God, you’re always so… responsible,” he’d say, like it was an insult. “I thought you were fun.”

Her “force” wasn’t a turn-on anymore; it was an argument. Her “blunt” truth wasn’t “cool”; it was “a drag.” The “fixer” was being told she was the one who was broken.

The end came on a Tuesday. Not at a club, but in her kitchen. Kai was on the couch, scrolling through his phone. Evie came in from school, dropped her bag, and opened the fridge.

“Can you at least say ‘hi’?” Halley snapped, her nerves already frayed from the tension.

“What’s up, kid?” Kai said, not looking up.

“Hey,” Evie mumbled.

“God, she’s always in a mood, isn’t she?” Kai muttered, loud enough for Evie to hear. “She’s like… a storm cloud.”

Evie froze, her hand on the fridge door.

Halley’s “force” armor slammed into place. “What did you just say?”

“What? She’s a drag. You’re so… vibrant,” he said, gesturing at her. “And she’s just… well.” He let the rest hang in the air, a grimace on his face.

“Don’t,” Halley’s voice was ice. “You don’t talk about her like that.”

“Relax,” he said, finally looking up, annoyed. “I’m just saying, you let her walk all over you. You should manage that. And this whole fundraiser thing… You need to loosen up. You’re a lot, you know that? All this ‘force’ shit. It’s exhausting.”

Manage. A lot. Exhausting.

It was the ghost of her first marriage. The echo of the “older man.” It was the “never be small again” vow, sounding its alarm. The “leave first” promise clicked into place.

She didn’t yell. She didn’t cry. Her hands just got steady.

“You should go.”

“Babe, I’m just saying—”

“No,” she said. The voice was the nurse’s. The one in the storm. “You’re not ‘just saying.’ You’re done. Get your shit and go.”

He tried to argue, to charm, to turn it back on her, to call her “crazy.” But she was already gone. She was the “force,” and she was clearing the room.

He left, slamming the door. The door clicked shut. And the echo came back, louder this time.

She’d “won.”
She’d “left first.”
She’d proven she couldn’t be “managed.”
She’d protected the girl who was 18 and small.

A hollow victory.

She turned, shaky with the adrenaline of the “win,” and saw Evie, still standing by the fridge. Her daughter’s face wasn’t grateful. It wasn’t relieved. It was just… tired.

“Evie, baby…”

“It’s fine,” Evie said, her voice tight, resigned. “You’ll just find another one. You always do.”

And she walked into her room and shut the door. The click of her daughter’s lock was louder than the door Kai had slammed.

Halley stood alone in her kitchen, completely, utterly hollow. Her armor had worked. It had protected her 18-year-old self.

But in doing so, it had just wounded her 40-year-old life, and her 15-year-old daughter.

She had never felt so underqualified.