Page 82 of Shattered Obsession

The day is enveloped in an eerie silence, the kind that wraps itself around me like a heavy comforter. I try doing normal things.

Laundry.

Cleaning.

Sorting mail.

But every sound feels amplified. I can’t shake the feeling that someone is waiting for me to slip up.

A shadow passes outside the window.

My breath stops.

It’s just a branch moving.

Probably.

That’s the worst part; trauma doesn’t need evidence. It fabricates it.

Xander has taken the car to run a few errands for his dad, leaving me abandoned in the small, cluttered apartment. Coffee mugs are carelessly strewn across the table, remnants of my aimless attempts at productivity, while my laptop remains open, the cursor blinking mockingly at the blank document. I had promised myself I would work on assignments, that I would finally dive into my deadlines, but my mind is adrift, restless and unable to settle.

As I reach for my phone, hoping to alleviate the silence with notifications, something mundane to anchor my thoughts, my heart stutters. An unfamiliar text flashes on the screen.

Unknown

You look better in black.

Instantly, a chill cascades down my spine, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My entire body goes cold at the realization. I pace the living room. Once. Twice. Again. I check the peephole even though there’s nothing there.

My senses lie to me.

My fear does not.

The radiator clicks, and I jump. My hands shake so violently I spill water everywhere. I grab paper towels, only to realize my vision is blurring.

“I’m not there,” I whisper. “I’m safe. I’m here.”

But the words don’t feel true.

It could be a harmless mistake. A wrong number. Someone being awkward or strange. Yet, my pulse knows better. I wore that black outfit yesterday, wrapped head to toe in the dark fabric that made me feel invincible. I hadn’t posted it anywhere; no one should have any knowledge of me wearing it.

The shocking words dance in my mind as I drop the phone as though it’s burning my skin. My heartbeat stumbles into a sprint. Sweat beads at my temples, though the apartment is cool. I stand here, frozen, my pulse banging against my throat like fists against a locked door.

It shouldn’t affect me this much.

It shouldn’t make me feel like I’m back in that night again.

But trauma doesn’t ask permission.

It just arrives uninvited.

My phone skitters across the table, vibrating once as if taunting me. Forcing myself to look again, I discover another message waiting.

Unknown

Don’t worry. I still like the red, too.

My stomach lurches sickeningly. The red skirt. I’ve only worn it for Xander one time whilst engulfed in the safety of my bedroom in the apartment, a piece of clothing that carried intimate memories. There’s no way this stranger could know that. Or could they? A bitter taste rises in my throat, the sensation of dread coiling tightly in my stomach.