Page 15 of Shattered Obsession

Don’t cry.

I keep eyeing the counter, looking at my bag—I just need my bag.

“I need water,” I whisper, praying he won’t catch the tremor in my voice. His eyes narrow, suspicion flickering across his face. A long pause follows, stretching like the space between us. Then he resigns with a curt nod.

“Don’t get dressed.”

Each step to the kitchen feels choreographed and rehearsed in my mind. Water. Bag. Phone. Calm. Calm. Calm. I brush my fingers against the counter, grabbing the cup of water. I raise the glass to my mouth so my hands have a reason to shake. Then, giving a quick look to the couch, I slip my hand into my bag, finding the familiar shape of my phone. With frantic energy, I type the fastest message of my life.

Thalia

Call me. Emergency. Don’t text back.

Seconds later, my phone buzzes violently in my hand. Isla’s voice fills the space, describing a dilemma about her dog and the vet, her need for me to come home now. I weave quick lies, spinning them frantically. I’m the only one who can drive, and I absolutely must go. Damian huffs in annoyance, rolling his eyes.

“Fine. Thank your friend for ruining our date.”

The very word ‘date’ makes my stomach twist, a vile reminder of what this evening was supposed to be.

The drive back feels suffocating, my heart racing. I sit rigidly in the passenger seat, hands folded in my lap, every muscle coiled in discomfort. Streetlights smear past the window like old bruises. “That wasn’t what I planned tonight. But you wanted this. I know you did.”

My brain sprints through the entire day, itemizing every text, every nod, every moment I didn’t protest fast enough, loud enough. The guilt is instant and undeserved and sticky. I try to peel it off in small, rational thoughts. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t agree to this. I didn’t. But the lie keeps circling back, insistent and arrogant.

He stops at the curb outside my building. I fumble for the handle too quickly, and his hand clamps around my arm. “Don’t slam the door,” he orders. When he finally lets go, the skin under his fingers pulses with heat. Just as I shut that car door, he makes me open and close it again until it meets his invisible standard. Once. Twice. Three times. My face burns, and I feel like a child being corrected in a store aisle until I finally walk away.

CHAPTER FOUR

-Thalia-

I walk away on legs that don’t feel like mine. My hands shake so hard I almost miss the keypad code. Isla opens the door before the second beep, but she doesn’t probe with questions, doesn’t ask anything, perhaps sensing that some wounds are too raw for inquiry. She just locks it behind me, sealing away the world I’m not ready to face just yet. I feel a wave of exhaustion crash over me, the kind that threatens to topple me into a heap on the floor, but I manage to hold on, not quite ready to surrender. She stands there, reading my face like a page she already knows by heart.

The world loses its edges inside the apartment. Everything is too big. My coat weighs enough to pull me to the floor. I don’t fall. I force out a concise retelling of the horrors I just endured, my voice cracking and raw, as if each word is a shard of glass tumbling from my throat. It’s a fragmented narrative, stripped of emotion, yet heavy with truth. I tell Isla everything through tears and fragmented sentences. She just stares and listens, not wanting to interrupt. Only after I stop speaking does she lean in and hug me tight. She tells me it's not my fault, that I did nothing wrong, and that I will get past this because I'm strong. After the brief exchange, I flee, taking refuge in the bathroom that feels like a sanctuary. I grab a towel and clothes that cover every inch of my skin, seeking comfort in their familiar embrace.

The mirror is something I can’t look at. As I turn on the tap, the shower hisses to life, and I step into heat that should hurt more than it does. The water blisters hot against me, but I don’t care. I grab the soap, scrubbing my skin with fierce determination, as if I can erase the evidence of his touch. I scrub because the quicker my hands move, the less my mind can.

His voice fogs the mirror anyway, writing itself over my reflection.

You wanted it.

I turn my face into the water until my lungs demand air. Memories of his hands on me, his voice murmuring in my ear, and the weight of his presence pressing down rush back like a torrent. No matter how fervently I scrub, the remnants of him cling to me like a shadow, refusing to fade away. I slide down the wall until I’m curled up in the corner of the shower, the water thrumming over the crown of my head so loudly it almost drowns out everything else. My forehead rests heavily against my knees, and with each drop, I feel the floodgates open. Tears stream down my face, hot and relentless, washing away the numbness that’s tried to settle in my chest. I hold myself together in the smallest way I can. One breath, then another, then another.

“It's not my fault. It’s not my fault,” I whisper to myself, repeating it like a mantra, hoping that with each utterance, I can convince myself of the truth hidden beneath the hurt.

When I can stand, I turn the water off. The silence after is a vacuum. I dress in clothes that hide everything. Isla passes me a pill that I asked her to pick up on the way back to the apartment. She hands me a glass of water in the hallway, her hand steady against my wrist.

“Plan B,” she says softly. I nod and swallow. The taste is bitter and final.

In my room, the lamp light is too gentle for the way I feel. I sit at my desk with my journal open to a blank page and a pen that feels heavier than it should. My hand shakes as I write, the words coming out jagged and messy.

I find solace in my journal, pouring the chaos that brews inside of me onto the blank pages. My words curve and angle jaggedly, conveying a deep sense of pain.

He took everything from me.

I feel soiled, tainted, as if the essence of who I was has been claimed and shattered.

I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. It was him. Always him.

I write furiously, the ink smudging under the onslaught of tears, blurring the lines until they merge into a watery mess. Writing becomes my lifeline. If I stop, I fear the flood of emotions will come crashing down, threatening to drown me in despair. I write because a record is proof, and proof is the only thing louder than doubt.