Page 90 of Shattered Obsession

Bella nudges my hand again. Her presence pulls me out of the spiral—warm, steady, real.

I focus on the details grounding me.

The soft thump of her tail against the floor, the scent of coffee drifting from the kitchen, the sunlight stretching across the table like a fragile promise.

For a moment, a single breath, I exhale without fear.

Maybe this is what recovery feels like.

Not freedom from the memories, but power in spite of them.

I let Bella crawl into my lap, burying my face in her fur.

“I’m trying,” I whisper, voice breaking.

Trying to believe safety isn’t temporary.

Trying to believe I deserve it.

Xander appears in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame, watching me like I’m something fragile and untouchable.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmurs.

“I don’t know how to stop,” I admit.

His expression softens, not in pity, but in recognition. “Then I’ll think for both of us.”

He crosses the room and presses a kiss to my temple.

I close my eyes. Try to believe him. Try to believe normal exists outside the gravity of fear.

I want desperately to pretend that it truly is, to convince myself that things are normal. I smile when he leans down to press a gentle kiss to the top of my head before heading off to work. The playful banter flows easily between us as I teasingly admonish him about being late if he doesn’t stop lingering in the doorway. He chuckles, that effortless grin stretching across his face, but I catch the brief flicker of tension in his eyes before he turns to leave, a silent acknowledgment of the lingering threat from the lighter. We are both ensnared by thoughts of it.

As the door clicks shut, an oppressive silence envelops the room, heavy and suffocating. I find myself slumped on the couch, fingers tightly gripping my coffee mug as I stare unenthusiastically at the television, where a mindless morning show babbles on about celebrity scandals that barely register in my mind. Everything appears normal. Everything is normal. Yet my chest feels as though it’s been electrified, a raw, tingling energy coursing through me, heightening my awareness of every sound and movement around me.

I attempt to distract myself with mundane tasks, like sorting the laundry, washing the dishes, and losing myself in the pages of a book. Just as I start to sink into the ordinary, my phone buzzes violently against the table. I nearly jump out of my skin, adrenaline surging through me.

It’s just a text from Isla, checking in about dinner plans later this week. But even typing back feels like a monumental task, my hands shaking with residual unease.

By the afternoon, I’ve retreated back to the couch, cocooned in a soft blanket, the familiar weight of my Bella pressing against my leg. My phone buzzes with another message.

Isla sending me TikToks.

Meme. Meme. Reminder to drink water.

Normal girl things.

I want to reply the way I used to, with sarcasm and emojis and rapid-fire thoughts, but typing feels like moving through wet cement. The words exist in my head; they just refuse to travel into the world.

I hate this part of trauma, the parts of you that grief steals without asking.

I swallow the hard lump in my throat.

My eyes drift to the door again.

Locked.

Double-locked.