Page 23 of Shattered Obsession

My chest continues to convulse, and I can’t catch the rhythm he’s offering.

“That’s okay,” he reassures quickly, his tone unshakable. “I’ve got you. Keep trying. In… and out.” His warm hand presses gently against my chest, grounding me, a solid presence in my whirlwind of panic. Slowly, I begin to latch onto his voice.

Sobs still escape me, tearing and raw, but gradually, the air starts to flow through my lungs once again. My fingers throb from how deeply I clawed at myself, and my arm burns from where I bit down, evidence of my struggle. But as I start to regain my senses, I understand that I am here. I am not there.

Xander pulls me into his lap, wrapping his arms securely around me to hold me tight against his chest. One hand burrows in my hair, while the other strokes soothingly up and down my arm as if he’s memorizing every inch of me.

“You don’t have to hurt yourself to get through this,” he murmurs softly against my temple. “I’ll hold you through it. Every time.”

His words settle into me slowly, like rain soaking into dry earth. The trembling in my limbs refuses to fade completely, but his heartbeat against my back keeps in time with mine until the rhythm feels shared. I never realized how starved I was for gentleness until now, how it can be just as disorienting as violence when you don’t expect it. My mind tries to argue that I don’t deserve this kind of patience, but his arms don’t listen. They keep holding on anyway.

My voice breaks as I whisper, “I can’t do this.”

“You can,” he replies, fierce and steady, capturing my attention completely. “Not alone. Not anymore. With me.”

I cling to him, trembling as the last waves of panic pulse through me, leaving me exhausted and hollow. Yet, even in that emptiness, I know I am not alone. His arms are still around me, holding me secure, and for tonight, that’s enough.

Dawn bleeds slowly through the curtains. Xander’s arm tightens around me in his sleep, instinctive and protective. I count the rise and fall of his chest until my own breath matches it. The night still clings to my skin, but morning smells like tea and second chances.

I linger in the space between exhaustion and awareness, my body caught somewhere between sleep and survival. The light filtering through the curtains feels too gentle to be real, the world outside too ordinary to belong to me. I watch a dust mote drift lazily through the air and wonder how something can float so effortlessly when everything inside me feels so heavy. My chest aches, but it’s not from fear—it’s from existing again.

When morning comes, I feel as if I’ve been scraped raw, like the very essence of me has been bared to the elements. My throat throbs painfully from the screams that tore from my lungs in the night, each sharp inhale a reminder of the chaos writhing within me. My body feels heavy and hollow, like a shell that has been wrung out, every ounce of strength drained away.

Xander hasn’t left my side throughout this ordeal. He’s been my silent anchor, making me a steaming cup of herbal tea that now sits untouched on the bedside table, its warmth long dissipated. He has spent the long hours of silence with me, stretched out beside me in a protective manner, his fingers intertwined with mine, as if he’s terrified that if he lets go, I might disappear altogether.

“I’m sorry,” I manage to whisper, my voice raspy and strained from the night’s turmoil. He turns his head toward me, brow furrowing in concern.

“Don’t apologize,” he insists.

“I lost it,” I confess, staring at the ceiling, unable to meet his eyes. “I bit myself. I tried to tear my own skin open. I scared you.” A tightness grips my chest, rising like a tide. “I scared myself.”

His thumb strokes delicately over my knuckles, a reassuring gesture that calms the storm within me. “You had a flashback, Thalia. That’s not your fault.”

“But it keeps happening. The nightmares. The panic. It’s like I spiral into this deep, dark abyss and can’t breathe. You shouldn’t have to sit there and watch me destroy myself.” My voice cracks, the weight of my admission almost too much to bear. “I don’t want you to get tired of me.”

He tightens his grip on my hand. “I’m not going anywhere, Thalia. I promise. But I feel helpless watching you, like I’m not doing enough to get you past your turmoil. Have you thought more about my suggestion? About therapy?”

The unspoken word lingers between us. Therapy. This time, rather than flinch away, I take a deep, shuddering breath, welcoming the thought instead of recoiling from it.

“I’m scared,” I admit, my voice barely a whisper. “What if I sit in front of someone and they don’t believe me? What if they think I’m weak? What if talking about it just makes everything worse?”

He shifts closer, his forehead resting softly against mine, his breath warm against my skin. “I promise I’ll be right there with you until it does get better.” My throat burns with the unshed tears that threaten to spill, blurring my vision, but this time, I don’t try to fight them. I let them flow freely, a release of the tightly held pent-up emotions.

“Okay.”

He presses a tender kiss to my temple. “That’s all I needed to hear. Just trying is enough. That’s all you have to do.”

The word reverberates through me. Enough. For years, it was a weapon, proof I never measured up. Now it’s soft, almost tender. I whisper it again, testing its shape in my mouth. Enough. The word follows me into the day, an echo that threads through every motion, like whilst I brush my hair, make my coffee, and watch the sunlight creep across the floorboards. It feels foreign but also like something I could grow into if I give it time.

When I glance at my reflection, I almost don’t recognize the woman staring back. Tired, yes, but alive. The bruised places inside me haven’t vanished, but for the first time, they don’t look endless. Maybe enough means letting that small shift matter.

Maybe healing starts with relearning language, turning the things that once cut me into something that mends instead. For the first time, the word ‘enough’ no longer carries the bitter taste of failure. Instead, it blossoms into something new, a fragile bloom of hope nestled within the chaos.

CHAPTER EIGHT

-Thalia-

My stomach hasn’t stopped twisting since I made the appointment with a local therapist. People like me don’t go to therapy—we just endure. We bury our feelings, shove them down deep, and keep moving forward, ignoring the echoes of our past. That’s been my approach for as long as I can remember.