Page 13 of Shattered Obsession

Later, I’ll recognize it for what it really is.

Instinct.

A whisper. A warning.

I pretend I still have choices. That if something feels wrong, I’ll leave. That if I feel uncomfortable, I’ll speak up. That I’ll behave differently than every version of me who stayed too long before.

But every choice so far has been shaped around someone else’s comfort, not mine.

So maybe the decision was made before I ever opened the app.

It’s just a date—my very first real one as an adult—and I should be feeling a rush of excitement coursing through me as I head home and ready myself for the evening. Instead, I’m smoothing out my shirt for the fifth time, fussing over every detail as I glance at my reflection in the mirror. I attempt to muster up a smile, hoping it will convey joy. Yet, I don’t exude excitement; I reflect nerves that twist in my stomach. Is my makeup too heavy? Too light? Am I trying too hard to impress?

Just as I raise my hand to touch up my lipstick, my phone buzzes, jolting me from my thoughts.

Damian

I’m here.

A tightness grips my chest.

This is it.

I grab my bag, whispering a quick goodbye to my friend Isla, who came over with her dog Bailey today to watch my dog, Bella. Her presence fades as I step out into the cool evening air. A silver car idles at the curb; its headlights seem to dance on the pavement. When I slide into the passenger seat, Damian greets me with a smile that suggests he’s already won something significant. An award for best first date, perhaps.

“Hey,” he says with a casual familiarity, as if we’ve taken this ride a hundred times before.

His voice is smooth, and the way he engages me makes me feel at ease momentarily. He asks about my day, filling the space with laughter as he sings along to the radio, nudging me to join in.

For a few blissful minutes, it feels almost normal, almost fun. But a casual comment takes me off guard.

“I forgot something at my place. Quick stop, then we’ll head out.”

A small alarm bell rings in my head, but I shrug it off. People forget things all the time.

It’s nothing to worry about.

CHAPTER THREE

-Thalia-

His apartment greets me with a peculiar blend of scents. The sharp tang of cleaning supplies layered over stale air, the remnants of cologne, and something fried.

“Shoes off at the door,” he instructs, and though the consequences of this ritual feel strange, I comply. Before I can think too much about it, he pulls me close.

His lips capture mine unexpectedly, too sure, too fast. It’s a kiss that borders the line between eagerness and aggression. His hands grip my body with a familiarity that makes my skin crawl, like he’s done this before. My back hits the kitchen counter, and I remind myself it’s just a kiss, just something new. But then he lifts me effortlessly and carries me down the dimly lit hallway.

The bedroom door clicks shut behind us with a finality that sends shivers prickling down my arms. The mattress dips as he lowers me, and the room tilts. His weight presses against me abruptly, crushing. He kisses me harder, rougher, the kind of kiss that feels less like affection and more like a command, leaving no room for my desires or feelings. My chest tightens. The air forcefully rushes out of me under his weight, as if he believes I belong beneath him. He sets the rules without saying them—where my arms go, how still I should be, what tone he expects when I answer. Every time I open my mouth, his fingers tighten; my voice is no longer mine to use freely.

Something in me fractures. I freeze, the way small animals do when a shadow crosses their path. He doesn’t notice, or maybe he does and simply doesn’t care. A palm at my throat, scarcely bearing down, just enough to say, ‘I am heavier and I take what I want.’

The room loses corners. My belt clinks faintly. Denim scrapes down my legs. I tell myself to cooperate, to make every second pass faster. The ceiling fan ticks a slow rhythm above us. I cling to small, dumb details—the scratch of the comforter against my legs, the smell of detergent, the way dust floats in the stripe of light across the dresser—because I cannot hold the larger shape of this moment without breaking.

He is all weight and certainty. I am quiet. I fold myself into the smallest version possible and count. Five breaths, then ten, then thirty, and then I lose track and start again. When I flinch, he laughs under his breath like I’ve told a joke for him. My wrists burn where he pins them. He tells me to be good. I nod because ‘no’ is useless here. I nod because I want to leave this room alive. I picture the front door. I picture my keys. I picture the exact path from this bed to the kitchen to my bag to my phone. Survive now. Think later. Time becomes slippery. My mind clings to anything but his weight. If I make myself small, if I go quiet, maybe it will end.

“Turn over,” he commands, his voice sharp and authoritative. Something inside me fractures. My brain races. This isn’t a date anymore. This isn’t what I agreed to. But his hand finds its way to my throat again, squeezing just enough to remind me of his strength, his tendency to dominate. I stare blankly at the wall, mentally tallying the imperfections in the paint: a chipped spot in the plaster, a long scratch on the headboard. Maybe if I count them, the moment will pass quicker. If I do what he wants, perhaps he’ll stop. Maybe, just maybe, I can get home.

Time slips and catches. The air tastes metallic. The bed frame knocks a small, steady rhythm into the wall like a clock counting in a language I can’t translate. The comforter’s threads scrape my skin; a corner tag brushes my wrist again and again until it’s all I can feel. I try to make my body disappear, to fold it down to breath and bone and silence.