a thousand butterflies / wlw

evelyn

friday, july 9th —
The morning light hit Gibraltar like it belonged there—clean, golden, and a little too bright. The air carried salt from the sea below, and every step crunched over sun-warmed gravel as our group made its slow, scattered way up the narrow trail that cut through the cliffs.

Day thirteen and Waylon was ahead, of course. He had that boundless, boyish energy that made everyone else look exhausted by comparison, waving his arm toward the ridge and calling out, "Come on! The view's insane from up here!"

I doubted it was worth the climb, but Fleur's excited laughter made it hard to complain. Daniel carried her easily on his hip, her tiny sneakers swinging, the hem of her denim jacket flapping against his side. She was still in those absurd Rainbow Dash pajamas, bright and loud against the muted rock, but she looked content, eyes wide, pointing out every seagull that passed.

"Mama! Look! That one's racing us!" she shouted, her voice cutting clear through the air.

"I see, sweetheart," I called back automatically, even though I couldn't see a damn thing she was talking about.

Olive trailed a few paces behind them, earbuds in but clearly not playing anything. Her hoodie was tied around her waist, her hair still messy but her face finally showing some color again—better than yesterday. She caught my eye once, gave a lazy thumbs-up, and kept walking.

Behind her, Naomi was fiddling with her backpack straps while walking, adjusting the weight until it sat just right. She'd pulled her hair up, strands escaping to brush the back of her neck. I tried not to look too long, the sun had a way of finding her face, softening everything it touched.

Grayson walked beside me, steady as ever, his hands shoved into his pockets. The slope wasn't steep, but it was enough to make conversation come in short bursts between breaths.

Ahead, Andrea peeled an orange as she walked, her fingers deft and precise, the citrus scent cutting through the dry air. Lana and Cam were already bickering about who'd reach the top first, their voices overlapping like a familiar argument neither of them wanted to win.

And then there were Amara and Madison, quiet, walking side by side but not speaking. Madison's eyes were half-lidded, sleep clinging to her expression; Amara's, unreadable as always, followed the path ahead with calm detachment.

The group stretched thin along the trail, the kind of half-chaotic order that had become normal for us. I focused on the rhythm of my steps, the heat on my shoulders, Fleur's laugh drifting back through the air.

But the closer we got to the cliffs, the harder it was to ignore the thought sitting stubbornly in the back of my mind.

The papers.

Grayson was close enough that his arm brushed mine every now and then. The kind of proximity that used to mean something. Now it just felt like the ghost of habit—polite, practiced distance disguised as closeness.

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He looked ahead, calm, maybe too calm, his jaw set in that way it always did when he didn't want to say what he was thinking.

I wondered if now was the moment, if I should bring it up. The end we'd both been quietly orbiting around for months. The divorce that had stopped being a question long before we ever said the word.

But Fleur's laugh rang out again, sharp and bright, and the thought faltered.

Not yet. Not here.

I drew in a slow breath, focused on the trail, and matched my steps to Grayson's again, the silence between us saying more than either of us dared to.