Page 119 of Shattered Obsession

For the longest time, I didn’t know there was a choice at all. Damian made sure of that. But now, with Xander, every touch is an offering. Every gasp is a reclamation. I’m no longer surviving inside my body; I’m inhabiting it. Sometimes healing looks like softness after years of sharp edges. Sometimes it looks like saying yes when you finally can and meaning it. I still see Damian in flashes, like lightning behind closed eyes. The glint of a ring, the sound of a low voice, the smell of cheap beer and violence. They strike hard, quick, and cruel. But when they fade, I’m still here. Breathing. Alive. Maybe that’s what victory looks like.

Damien is gone, and what’s left behind isn’t silence but something closer to peace. The apartment feels different now. Lighter somehow. I still check the locks too often, still flinch at sudden footsteps in the hall, but the panic doesn’t own me anymore. The first few nights with Xander were the hardest. My body didn’t know the difference between being held and being restrained. Sleep was foreign, too close to vulnerability. He learned to read every breath, every shift of my muscles. Sometimes he’d wake before me, his hand hovering just above my hip until I turned toward him. Permission, always unspoken but always given.

We built something out of patience instead of pain. Desire came later. Slow. Careful. The kind that doesn’t burn you but warms you from the inside out.

When his mouth finds mine now, it isn’t conquest; it’s communion. When he whispers my name, it isn’t ownership; it’s reverence. I used to think rage was all I had left. Rage was my armor.

Rage was the thing that kept me alive when everything else was stolen.

But rage cannot be a home.

Xander never tried to extinguish my anger; he simply handed me water so I wouldn’t drown in it.

But love, real love, isn’t the opposite. It’s what makes the rage survivable. There are still days I crumble. When the memories pull me under and I can’t tell past from present. But when I look up, Xander is there, steady and patient. He doesn’t fix it. He doesn’t try. He just stays. And somehow, that’s enough to pull me back every time. We stay wrapped up in bed, tangled in the sheets together, until the city outside fades into dawn. The sun rises like a slow confession.

Xander sleeps beside me, arm thrown across my waist, steady as gravity.

I watch the light crawl across the sheets.

It touches my scars like a benediction.

Morning used to mean interrogation.

‘Why didn’t you leave?’

‘Why didn’t you fight harder?’

Now it means one thing.

I survived.

The first light seeps through the curtains, pale and shy. I drift between sleep and wakefulness, half-aware of the steady beat of Xander’s heart beneath my ear.

There’s something almost holy about the way morning light filters through my window now. I used to dread it—too bright, too revealing. But now, I open the curtains myself. I write more these days. Sometimes my hands shake. Sometimes the words are jagged, sharp-edged things that cut as I pull them out. But they’re mine. Damian doesn’t live in them anymore. I do. The nightmares still come, but I’ve stopped trying to fight them. When they find me, I let them pass through the way a storm passes through an open field. I’ve learned that pretending you aren’t broken is just another kind of cage. Xander knows this too. He doesn’t flinch when I wake up sweating or when I stare too long at nothing. He just reaches out, grounding me in the quiet. The kind of silence that means safety, not danger.

Later, coffee fills the apartment, his ritual. We have small rituals now. He makes the coffee, I steal the first sip, and he pretends to be annoyed. These ordinary moments feel revolutionary.

Healing isn’t fireworks.

It’s coffee at seven a.m.

It’s safety in routine.

It’s laughing without flinching.

The scent winds through the air like warmth made visible. I slip one of his shirts on and pad to the kitchen, the fabric swallowing me whole. He glances up from the counter, eyes softening.

“Morning, trouble,” he says.

“Morning,” I answer, voice scratchy. “Do I look as wrecked as I feel?”

He smirks. “Better.”

It makes me laugh, a sound that doesn’t echo with panic anymore. I didn’t know laughter could feel this light.

We eat in companionable quiet. His thumb brushes my wrist every so often, a small reassurance that I’m still here, still safe. The morning sun catches the silver ring on his hand, a mirror of the scar on my arm, and I think about how far we’ve come from the ruins that built us.

We’re learning how to live, not just exist. Existing was the cage.