Page 12 of Shattered Obsession

The laugh that slips out of me is small but real.

For a second, the panic eases.

For a second, I can breathe.

For a second, I think. Maybe tomorrow will be fine. Maybe I’m overthinking. Maybe I’m being dramatic, like the cat in the blanket. Maybe I’m paranoid for no reason. Maybe nothing bad happens. Maybe this is the part where I finally get what other people already have, and it’s okay.

I hold on to that version.

I wrap myself in it, even though it doesn’t quite fit.

Because the alternative—the knot in my stomach, the way my skin prickles, the way his voice felt like a hand around the back of my neck—is too heavy to carry into sleep.

I plug in my phone.

I turn off the light.

And in the dark, I whisper to myself like it’s a spell.

It’s just a date.

It’s going to be fine.

It has to be.

I hold onto that as I drift off to sleep.

The next morning, before the date, I visit my favorite place: the local bookstore near my apartment. When I enter, it envelops me with its familiar scent of aged paper and brewing coffee.

The atmosphere wraps around me like a warm blanket, grounding and safe. I always come here when I need to remember who I am, or at least who I used to be before loneliness made me compromise pieces of myself. The faint scratch of pages turning, the hush of whispered conversations, the distant hiss of the espresso machine—it’s all white noise that makes my chest loosen.

Here, people don’t demand. They don’t take. They don’t expect anything from me besides existing quietly among them.

I love the sensation of time slowing within these walls, where nobody thinks twice about a girl wandering the aisles alone in search of solace or inspiration.

As I meander through the rows filled with stories, I trail my fingers along the colorful spines of the books, relishing the tactile experience that grounds me. Occasionally, I pause to pick up random volumes, letting the weight of their tales rest in my palms. These stories talk of monsters and heroes, survival against odds, and broken women who clawed their way out of their despair to emerge stronger. I have always been drawn to narratives of resilience, longing for those kinds of endings even before my life demanded them.

I pick up a book with a cracked spine and a cover featuring a woman facing a storm. The synopsis talks about ‘ignoring the signs until it was too late’. My throat tightens. I trace the embossed title with my thumb. I wonder how many characters in stories missed the warning signs because they wanted to believe someone’s words instead of their instincts. I wonder how many real people do the same.

I continue to browse, immersed in the aromatic haven, until I reach the end of an aisle and pick up a book at random. Flipping it open, the words swim before my eyes, blurring together in an unintelligible whirl. But soon enough, they settle into a rhythm, crafting a reminder that entire worlds could be built, entire universes created, using nothing more than ink and paper.

My phone buzzes in my hand, shattering the moment of stillness as Damian's name lights up the screen. I hesitate before answering, despite my stomach dropping like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. Isn’t that ridiculous? It’s just a call. Just pixels forming pictures. But the reaction is immediate—tight chest, tense shoulders, breath held hostage somewhere in my ribs. My hand shakes. Not at the sound. At the expectation. Because Damian never just calls. He commands.

“Hey,” I say softly.

“Just making sure you didn’t forget about me.” His voice is smooth, perhaps too smooth, and his words flow effortlessly.

I let out a soft laugh, even though it feels slightly awkward, a verbal gesture to mask my growing uncertainty.

“I’m not really the type to forget,” I reply, my mind buzzing, a part of me aware of the truth that lingers just beneath the surface.

A few minutes later, I end the call and slip my phone into my pocket, standing still in the aisle for a moment, surrounded by the shelves and the comforting silence. His voice lingers like a fingerprint on my skin, impossible to wipe off. I try to replay the call in my mind, searching for something to prove my unease is irrational. Instead, I replay the way he said, ‘Just making sure you didn’t forget about me,’ like I already owed him remembrance. Like being in his orbit requires devotion.

And I realize something quietly terrifying.

I don’t want to disappoint him… even when I barely know him.

I wish I could bottle up this feeling of safety, the comfort of paper, the warmth of stories enveloping me, the stillness that makes me feel secure. Because even here, in this moment of calm, a part of me senses that life has a way of snatching away such peace before you truly understand how fragile it is. I press the book back onto the shelf with finality. My fingers slip away from the spine, but the weight of the moment clings to me like humidity. I tell myself it’s just nerves.