Just Calm Down
#24 of 52 Fictions: A Story a Week for 2026
“Would you just calm down?” he said. He knew better than to say that, so she left the room. Then she stood in the living room, and she thought about how eventually he would come out to look for her and apologize. She was sick to death of leaving the room and him coming out to apologize. Twenty years of leaving the room, him coming out, apologizing. In the window, in the twilight, it had begun to snow, falling fast in the eerie halo of the streetlamp. A car went by slowly with the lights on and the wipers flickering.
She wanted to be out of the house, but she didn’t like to be cold. She put on her snow pants, her boots, her warm parka, her mittens, and her balaclava. She put a hat on top of the balaclava, and she pulled her hood over the hat. She had all this stuff for skiing, although they hadn’t skied in a long time. In the mirror she looked like the world’s stupidest polar explorer. She went outside anyway.
In the middle of the lawn, she stalled. She didn’t really want to go anywhere. She just didn’t want to be in the house; she didn’t want to be in anything. The snow came down fast, piling on itself. She sat down, then lay back and watched the snow streaking whitely from out of the black void.
The snow gathered on her parka. She tightened her hood around her face, and she put her arms at her sides, and she lay still. Any movement would cause the snow to slide off, so she made her breath small. Inside her layers she was warm, and the quiet effort of not moving pleased her. The snow gathered on her hood and on the face of her balaclava. It weighed on her legs, arms, belly, chest. Where it landed around her eyes and mouth it melted and trickled down under the balaclava. She listened to the faint noises of snow creaking against her and the faint tap of snow landing on snow.
She heard the door open. He called her name. She lay still; or, rather, she didn’t stop lying still.
He muttered something. The door closed.
Eventually she would get up, she thought, but not yet. Time was snowflakes falling. Small things gathering can become heavy and large. She was made of the snow and the night.
Footsteps approached. She was confused, and only after a moment did she realize he had closed the door, but he hadn’t gone inside. “Is that you?” he said.
“No.” She tried to move only her lips, and those hardly at all.
“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry. I won’t say that again.”
“You always say that.”
“Aren’t you cold? You’re a little bit freaking me out.”
“Go away.”
“What?”
“Come back when you’re really sorry.”
“I am really sorry.”
She said nothing, and after a minute he went away.
A passing car made the falling snow glow more brightly. A trickle of snowmelt moved into her ear.
The door opened and closed. She could hear by the sound of his steps that now he was wearing boots. She thought that if he tried to clear the snow off of her or drag her up, she would scream. He stood over her, looking down, and she saw that he was wearing his hat and coat, and then she heard him lie down beside her.
She could faintly hear the snow tapping against his coat, and then eventually as his coat was covered over, that sound disappeared.
In the silence he said, soft, “I’m really sorry.”
Well, she thought. This was different. He could still surprise her. Was it enough? She wasn’t entirely sure, but she was snow, and now he was snow, and they could wait here and see.
Events: The Lighthouse Lit Fest in Denver is happening now, and I will be teaching a seminar later this week. Lit Fest is a terrific event every year, and I encourage you to explore all of the options. (And read here Jenny Shank’s lovely reminisces about the event.)
Nick’s Seminar — Friday, June 19, 1:30 - 3:30 — How to Be an Asshole: Stories need villains and brutes, scoundrels and jerks, creeps and lowlifes. Collectively, let’s call them assholes. They create conflict, suspense, and intrigue. They’re often the most interesting characters in a story. But writers are, generally, nice people. How do we put ourselves into the mind of the asshole? How do we give them their humanity without denying their depravity? Let’s explore how to be an asshole (on the page) by exploring their mindset and ways to write it without becoming one ourselves. More info.
Picture Season: Erin, my lovely wife, creates the illustrations for these stories. Her portrait photography is fabulous, and she loves to work with young people. If you have a Denver-area rising senior in your life who is in need of senior pictures, check out her website and drop her a line.
Background and implorements: I’m on a mission to write and post a story a week for 2026. Check out this article about the project in Westword!
The stories are free, but here are some other ways you can support the author:
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This story is by Nick Arvin. Check out the previous stories. The fabulous illustrations for these stories are by Erin Schoepke/Lunascape Photograpy. See more of her images here. Follow her on Instagram. No AI was used in creating this story or the illustration.
Oh I enjoyed this! “Was it enough?” Can’t know, but you had the reader experience the same refreshing twist as she did, having expected to be disappointed by him, and being pleasantly surprised. So, maybe!
Terrific. So compact and so powerful. The delicacy of the snow, the detail of her experiencing what is beautiful and peaceful and potentially deadly. And a strong finish that took me by surprise. Thank you.