Page 48 of Shattered Obsession

But my brain whispers back.

You were safe once before, and look how that ended.

I pad softly into the kitchen, my bare feet making little noise against the cool tiles, and pour water into the kettle. The gentle bubbling as it heats brings a sense of familiarity. I wrap my hands around the steaming mug of tea like it’s an anchor, grounding me in this solitude. The first sip is warm and soothing, spreading comfort through me. I hold the mug with both hands and inhale the steam, letting the peppermint unclench the knots hiding beneath my ribs. It reminds me of childhood winters, of safety. Back when trust wasn’t something that could be broken like thin glass.

When I pass by the window, a wave of unease crashes over me. For a fleeting moment, I swear I spot a familiar car idling on the street. I freeze, my heart racing as I stare too long, waiting breathlessly. But as the car pulls away, the tension in my chest dissipates like mist in the sunlight.

Paranoia. That’s all it is.

Determined not to let my mind spiral deeper into anxious thoughts, I turn away from the window and occupy myself with small tasks. The rest of the day trickles by in fragmented snippets, scribbling thoughts and feelings in my journal. My handwriting is tense, letters sharp and uneven, like my thoughts are carving themselves into the page instead of resting on it. I write about mundane things—dinner ideas, grocery lists—as if pretending everything is normal will trick my brain into believing it.

But the words shift.

He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s not gone enough.

The pen shakes in my hand. A tiny smear of ink bleeds where a tear lands on the page. I slam the journal closed and push it away.

I used to romanticize journaling, the cozy girl with the coffee aesthetic.

Now the page looks like a crime scene.

Ink smears like bruises.

Words feel like confessions.

Sometimes I wonder if trauma leaves fingerprints, tiny invisible marks on every surface I touch. As if someone could dust my life and find evidence. Here is where she learned to flinch, here is where she stopped trusting herself, and here is where her heart split.

I flip to a blank page and force myself to write one sentence.

You are not what he did to you.

The letters shake.

But they stay on the page.

And somehow, that feels like rebellion.

After flipping aimlessly through television channels, I doze off on the couch, the blanket wrapped snugly around me. Every so often, a compulsion pulls me to wake and look at my phone, where I reread the last text Xander sent.

Xander

Heading to work now, baby. I’ll be home later. Miss you already.

It’s silly, really, how much comfort those simple words provide amidst the stillness. I type, ‘Miss you too,’ and hover over the send button, then delete it, rewriting the message five times. I want to say, ‘Don’t be gone long.’ I want to say, ‘I hate the silence without you in it.’ Instead, I send a simple emoji, a heart. His read receipt appears instantly. Somehow, that makes breathing easier.

I stare at my phone long after the message sends.

I want to tell him everything—every fear, every spiral, every shadow—but I keep it to myself because I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, the darkness will swallow him too. Loving someone after trauma feels like walking barefoot into the future, unsure if there are landmines buried ahead.

Xander doesn’t ask me to be healed.

He just asks me to stay.

And that scares me more than anything because staying means believing I deserve this.

As time drags on, I find myself attuned to the quiet rhythm of the day, but with each tick of the clock, my anticipation grows. When I finally hear the familiar roar of his truck rumbling into the parking lot, a rush of relief floods through me, sharp and almost dizzying, pushing away the loneliness that had settled in. I set my mug down carefully on the counter, smoothing my hair back from my face—a nervous habit that I can’t seem to shake. The moment the key turns in the lock, something inside me unravels. The door swings open, bringing cold night air and the smell of rain. Xander fills the doorway, tall, solid, present. My lungs remember how to work.

“Thal?” His voice cuts through the stillness like a warm embrace. It fills the space around me, wrapping me in an intangible warmth that feels like home. A smile tugs at my lips before I can even think to suppress it.