Page 32 of Shattered Obsession

But my body doesn’t know that yet.

It reacts to ghosts.

And I hate that I can’t logic my way out of trauma, can’t argue with my nervous system into cooperating. I want so badly to be normal. To just enjoy something without dissecting it.

But healing isn’t graceful.

Sometimes, it’s crawling.

“But what if I can never get past this? What if it’s always like this?” My voice cracks, despair fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird. He gently takes my trembling hands, lacing our fingers together, grounding me with his touch.

“Then I’ll stay anyway,” he pledges, his voice a soothing balm. “Because being with you isn’t about what we can or can’t do in bed. It’s about you. About us. The rest… We’ll figure it out, one step at a time.” The lump in my throat swells painfully, almost unbearable.

Overwhelmed, I bury my face in his chest, sobbing into the warmth of him, into the steady rhythm of his heartbeat that feels so reassuring. His promise shouldn’t feel possible. Loyalty like that feels dangerous, like an edge I could bleed on. But his tone is steady, patient. I wonder what it would feel like to stop waiting for people to leave. To stop testing them with my worst moments and simply believe they’ll stay.

He wraps his arms around me, careful and deliberate, like every touch is an invitation, a whisper of permission rather than a demand. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers into my hair.

I flinch, not because of fear, but because I’m still learning how to accept words that don’t bruise on impact.

I want to believe him.

I really do.

But belief feels dangerous, like handing someone a weapon and hoping they won’t use it.

For what feels like an eternity, he simply holds me. There’s no rushing, no pushing, no whispers of disappointment. Just his unwavering presence, replete with love and understanding.

As my tears gradually subside, he leans down, his breath warm against my hair. “Tonight wasn’t a failure. It was information.”

Information. The word sticks, strange and clinical, but maybe that’s what I need, a way to label the chaos, to make it measurable. If I can name it, maybe I can control it. His patience feels like gravity pulling me back each time I drift into shame.

“We learned what doesn’t feel safe yet. That’s progress.”

Progress is terrifying; it means moving away from the familiar ache that’s kept me safe. I’m not sure I’m ready to live without the armor of fear. Yet when he looks at me, I almost want to try.

What if every time I try, I freeze?

What if my trauma keeps poisoning the best thing I’ve ever had?

Xander doesn’t know the nightmare reel that plays behind my eyelids, the memories that surface, uninvited and sharp.

I want to want him freely.

I just don’t know how.

Days drift by in a murky haze before we decide to try again. Xander is a master of patience; he never brings it up, never hints at it, never pushes me to act before I’m ready. It’s me who finally whispers the words into the quiet of the night, the weight of them heavy in the still air. “Can we… try again?” My stomach twists. Not from dread, just sheer vulnerability.

Trying again isn’t about wanting sex.

It’s about wanting freedom.

Damian took something from me, carved out pieces I didn’t consent to lose. Trying again means taking one back.

The question barely leaves my lips, but it carries every sleepless night, every therapy session, every heartbeat that’s learned to stutter at the sound of love. I don’t ask because I’m ready. I ask because I’m tired of being ruled by the part of me that isn’t.

His breath catches for a moment, then he bends down, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to the crown of my head. “Only if you’re sure.”

I nod, the determination in my voice strengthened as I murmur, “I’m sure I want to try. That’s all I can promise.”