Page 22 of Shattered Obsession

“Thalia,” I say softly, keeping my voice steady. “I love you. And I’ll always be here for you. But I think… I think maybe trying something like therapy could help.”

The word ‘therapy’ hangs heavy in the air between us, a ball of anxiety and hope. I can almost see her processing it, running it through the filter of her fears and doubts.

“I can hold you when the nightmares hit, remind you that you’re safe when you panic,” I continue, desperation creeping into my tone. “But no matter how much I wish I could, I can’t erase what happened. And I think someone who’s trained, someone who knows how to guide you through this… might make a difference in your healing.”

Her eyes widen, reflecting a glint of fear, and I squeeze her hand tightly, not letting her pull away. “I’m not saying you’re broken, because you’re not. I’m saying I love you enough to want you to have every tool, every bit of help you deserve. Because you deserve peace, Thalia. You deserve to heal.”

-Thalia-

The words echo long after he says them. Peace. Heal. They sound like foreign languages my body doesn’t yet know how to speak. I stare at our joined hands and wonder how he can hold something so trembling and still call it steady. There’s a weight to hope, an ache that feels dangerous when you’ve lived too long without it. The idea of letting someone help me claw my way out of the dark terrifies me more than the dark itself. Yet his eyes hold that quiet conviction that makes impossible things sound simple.

I want to believe him, but belief feels like a muscle I forgot how to use. Every time someone promised safety before, it came with chains attached. His words don’t sound like those old promises; they sound heavier, more real, and that’s what frightens me. What if I let myself trust him and it still breaks? What if peace hurts more than pain because I won’t know what to do with it?

I press my nails into my palms until the sting pulls me back to now, to him, to the quiet steadiness that refuses to let me slip away again.

The word ‘therapy’ hits me harder than I expect. My chest tightens immediately, a wave of instinctive resistance flooding through me. For a split second, all I want to do is shake my head and refuse, to reject the idea of sitting in front of a stranger and exposing all my vulnerabilities. It feels like the most excruciating kind of public humiliation or like bleeding without a bandage. But the way he says it isn’t filled with accusations or insinuations of failure. It’s imbued with so much love and care that I can barely process it.

Xander makes me feel like I’m worth saving.

A lump forms in my throat, but I manage to ask, “What if it doesn’t work?”

His response is immediate as he lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles that sends a shiver through me. “Then we try again. Different person, different method. I’ll be right there with you, no matter how long it takes. You won’t have to do this alone.”

The silence that follows is thick but gentle. I feel it slide over my skin like cool water after a burn. Outside, cicadas scream, the only witnesses to my reluctant surrender. I don’t know what trying looks like yet, only that Xander believes I can. For now, that has to be enough.

The balcony swing creaks, the night breathes with us, and for the first time, the word ‘try’ feels less like a failure and more like a promise.

Getting tired, I stand and walk toward the bedroom. Xander quietly follows me, and we lie down on the bed together.

I close my eyes and listen to the soft rasp of Xander’s thumb brushing over my hand. I catalog this small, harmless sound, forcing it into the forefront of my mind to drown out the darker noises that still hide in the corners.

Maybe healing starts there, in noticing the world again. My tears come hot and fast, but this time, they’re different. They’re not born out of panic or fear; they’re like a river of relief, a sign of releasing the pent-up tension. I nod, small yet resolute.

“Okay. I’ll try.”

“Thank you, Thalia. That’s all I ask. I’m proud of you.”

I fail to drift to sleep and eventually switch to scrolling aimlessly through my phone. The atmosphere in the room shifts, becoming heavy and suffocating. A smell I can’t identify settles into my throat, faint yet distinctly his cologne, accompanied by the phantom weight of his body pressing down on me. Suddenly, I’m no longer in my room; I’m back there, trapped in that haunting space. I see the bedroom and the couch. I feel his hand gripping my throat. I hear his voice dripping with menace in my ear.

“Be a good girl, or I’ll punish you.”

Panic surges through me, and my chest constricts violently. My vision narrows painfully as I struggle to breathe, folding in on myself, my knees drawn tight to my chest, hands clutching my arms so hard that my nails break skin. I think it might help to feel something, anything other than the horror flooding my mind. My teeth find the tender flesh of my arm, biting down until the pain burns, the sharpness cutting through the dread. But no matter how hard I try, it doesn’t stop the memories. Nothing seems to halt the onslaught.

The room tilts, sound collapsing into a low hum. Every heartbeat is a hammer against my ribs. Somewhere, the clock ticks too loudly, and I can’t tell if it’s real or inside my head. I reach for the world and find only static.

Finally, his voice breaks through—steady and patient—pulling me toward air I can’t yet grasp.

“Thalia!” Xander’s voice slices through the fog, laced with panic. He’s there, hands hovering hesitantly as if he fears breaking me further.

“I can’t,” I choke out through my sobs. “I can’t breathe. I’m back there. I can’t.”

“You’re here,” he says firmly, his hands finding mine and gently prying them away from my tortured skin. His thumb begins to stroke calming circles across my palm. “You’re not there. Look at me.”

But I can’t. My eyes are squeezed shut, the room spinning around me as terror grips every nerve.

His voice softens as he senses my struggle. “Then just hear me. You’re safe. Breathe with me. In—” He takes a slow, deep inhale, exaggerated and steady. “—and out.”

His voice is the only thing that doesn’t distort. Every other sound stretches thin, like I’m underwater. I cling to the rhythm of his words, the steady beat of syllables pulling me toward air I don’t believe in yet. My lungs ache, my throat burns, but his breath becomes a map, guiding me through the fog inch by inch. I don’t remember deciding to reach for him, but suddenly, my fists unclench. My body doesn’t stop shaking, but it starts remembering the difference between now and then, between pain and touch, between power and control.