Page 24 of Shattered Obsession

Yet now, the thought consumes me.

What does it mean to sit across from a stranger and spill out everything I’ve spent so much time concealing? The idea terrifies me. What if they don’t believe me? What if their eyes mirror the judgment I sometimes see in the mirror—contempt, pity, the accusation that I should have fought, screamed, or ran? What if they utter the words I whisper to myself in the stillness of night?

‘It’s your fault. You should have stopped it.’

A tightness grips my chest, and my breath comes in shallow bursts. I envision their office. Muted, neutral walls adorned with abstract art that feels cold and clinical, bookshelves filled with volumes of wisdom I can’t seem to access, and a chair looms over me, waiting for me to sit and bleed my secrets across its fabric. Just picturing it makes my skin crawl. What if I sit there, frozen like I did that night, paralyzed into silence while everything unfolds around me? And what if, by forcing those memories out into the light, I find they cut deeper than they already do?

My nails dig into my palms, a familiar pressure building within me. I already feel the panic closing in, that suffocating weight urging me to run, to avoid this appointment at all costs. But then I hear Xander’s voice in my mind, steady and comforting. ‘You won’t have to do it alone.’ That thought is the only thing anchoring me right now, the image of him waiting for me afterward, patient and strong, ready to remind me that I am safe with him. Still, the fear claws at my insides.

I trace the outline of the red circle on the calendar with my fingertip until the screen smudges. It feels like touching a wound, small but tender, proof that something is changing. Every excuse I invent dissolves beneath the image of Xander’s face when he called me brave. I replay that moment until it sticks. Maybe bravery isn’t loud. Maybe it’s the quiet act of showing up even when every part of you wants to disappear.

I replay those words for hours. Bravery isn’t loud. It’s not the screaming, the fighting, or the blood under your nails. It’s this: sitting in silence and daring to hope that healing might not kill you. I used to think strength looked like pretending, like holding your head high while everything inside you shattered. But maybe it looks more like this fragile, shaking version of myself, the one who still shows up.

One day until I step into a stranger’s office and attempt to unravel the tangled mess in my mind. One day until I risk breaking completely or, perhaps, begin to heal. The uncertainty of it all terrifies me just as much as the prospect of facing my past.

The hours crawl. I try distracting myself with books, TV, or cleaning, but every silence invites memory. Even the mirror feels like an interrogation. When I finally collapse into bed, exhaustion is a lie; my body’s still braced for impact. I close my eyes and picture Xander’s voice as a thread tying me to the present, thin but unbreakable.

I find it impossible to sleep. My first therapy appointment is later this morning, and the weight of it presses down on me like an avalanche. I lie in bed, staring at the illuminated clock on my nightstand as it ticks past midnight, hopelessly chasing a rest that refuses to come. My body aches for sleep, but my mind spins in endless circles, each thought gnawing at me relentlessly.

I turn onto my side, finding my phone and FaceTime Xander. “You’re awake,” I whisper, a confession more than a statement. He offers a faint smirk, a glimmer of mischief lighting up his features.

“So are you.” For a moment, I teeter on the brink of apologizing, almost telling him to go back to sleep, that everything will be fine. But I have been offering that lie for too long, and I’m weary of pretending.

“I can’t turn my brain off,” I admit, my voice suddenly fragile. “Every time I close my eyes, I feel it again, like it’s happening all over.”

Xander doesn’t offer empty reassurances. Instead, he offers a simple solution.

“Then don’t close them,” he replies softly. “We’ll stay awake together.” Those words wash over me like a wave; so simple, yet they provide an unexpected anchor.

I look at him, eyes wide and vulnerable, waiting for him to tire of my presence, to vanish like so many others have before.

“You don’t have to carry this alone, Thalia. Not with me.” Tears slip free, spilling over like a crack in a dam.

“What if I never get better?”

“Then I’ll love you through the worst of it and, when you’re ready, through the best of it, too.”

Something breaks open inside of me—not the jagged kind of breaking that Damian had left me with, but the kind that feels like light spilling through a crack in the darkness. For the first time in weeks, the tightness in my chest begins to loosen. For the first time in what feels like forever, I dare to believe that maybe, just maybe, I’m not irreparably damaged. I close my eyes, not to escape into sleep, but to commit every detail to memory. The rhythmic sound of Xander’s breathing on the phone, the undeniable safety, and the promise that I’m not alone in this fight.

Xander drives me to my therapy appointment. The car hums softly, but the atmosphere feels charged, like a storm about to break. I sit in the passenger seat, my knee bouncing against the upholstery in a frantic rhythm, the unwanted surge of nervous energy bubbling beneath my skin. I whisper reassurances to myself—this is just an appointment, just a conversation—but my body seems to reject those words, trembling with anticipation and fear. At my side, Xander keeps one hand firmly on the wheel while the other rests gently over mine, a reassuring presence. He doesn’t need to say anything; his thumb drifts in slow, calming circles against my skin, a silent promise. ‘I’m here. I won’t leave you.’

“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper, keeping my gaze fixed on the passing landscape.

“Yes, I do,” he replies in a soft yet unwavering tone. He glances at me, his smile small but filled with confidence. “But you don’t have to do it alone.” The words wrap around me like a warm blanket, and I can feel the lump in my throat swell with emotion, pushing against my resolve. With every mile we venture closer to our destination, a tightening grip squeezes at my chest until I can barely draw a breath when we finally coast into the parking lot.

Xander parks the car and cuts the engine, his attention fully focused on me. He looks at me, really looks at me, with those earnest eyes that seem to peel back all my layers.

“Thalia, you’re stronger than you think, and this doesn’t make you weak. It makes you brave.”

My eyes sting from the force of unshed tears, but I manage a nod, swallowing hard. Speaking right now would shatter whatever fragile composure I’ve built, and I refuse to fall apart before I even enter the building.

He opens my door, treating it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand extends toward mine, and I take it, feeling my fingers tremble against the reassuring warmth of his touch. Each step toward the entrance feels like wading through a thick, unyielding current, slow and heavy, where every movement demands more from me than the last.

As we cross the threshold into the waiting room, the silence envelops me, thickened by the relentless hum of fluorescent lights overhead. A frantic urge to flee washes over me. I want to tell Xander I can’t do this and dash back to the comfort of the car, but he squeezes my hand gently, anchoring me to the present moment.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, offering me a grounding lifeline. “I’ll be right here when you come out.”

Before I can form a reply, a door swings open, and a woman in her forties emerges, holding a clipboard and smiling softly.