Page 38 of Shattered Obsession

Steady.

Present.

Mine.

Damian used to tell me that fear would always own me. That my body would always remember him.

But right now, my body remembers something else.

Warmth.

Music.

Safety.

Peace wasn’t something stolen. It was something waiting.

It’s strange, finding calm in something so simple, but maybe healing is just a collection of small, ordinary mercies.

With a deep breath, I move to the kitchen, forcing myself to prepare breakfast. I slice bread for toast, crack eggs into a pan, and pour water for coffee while the aromas start to weave through the air. It’s a simple meal, nothing extravagant, but I remind myself that eating is a choice I can make. No one can take that from me, a small act of autonomy in the face of everything else that feels uncontrollable. I sit at the small kitchen table, the sunlight streaming through the window illuminating the mundane task, yet it feels strangely surreal, as if I’ve slipped into someone else’s reality.

For a while, I watch the light shift across the surface of my coffee mug, inching from gold to amber. The dust motes floating in the air look almost holy. I think about how, months ago, mornings like this used to crush me—the stillness, the light, the reminder that the world kept spinning.

The morning drifts away in small increments. I fold a fresh load of laundry, carefully smoothing out each piece of clothing, trying to find comfort in the repetitive motion. I vacuum the rug, watching as the tiny particles vanish, swept away with each pass.

Eventually, I pick up the book that has sat on my bedside table for far too long, diving into its pages and losing myself in the story for three chapters. Reading feels like remembering how to breathe underwater. At first, every word burns, every paragraph stretches my focus too thin. But then, slowly, the characters take shape, and the world beyond these pages dissolves. I can exist here without needing to survive anything. It feels almost illicit to be safe inside a story. The normalcy feels foreign, a stark contrast to the storm raging in my mind, but this fleeting sense of peace doesn’t last.

As afternoon creeps in, shadows cast long and dark across the living room, reminding me that tranquility is often an illusion. The silence sharpens, and memories I’d rather forget begin to flood back with relentless intensity. Damian’s face flashes in my mind, his voice echoing in the recesses of my memory, a bitter reminder of past entrapment. The familiar grip of panic tightens around my chest, my hands trembling uncontrollably as I battle the rising tide of fear. The room doesn’t change, but I do.

My body reacts before my brain catches up. My throat tightens as if invisible hands have wrapped around it. My vision tunnels, narrowing until the edges blur. I swear I can smell cologne, but not Xander’s warm, woodsy scent. His. Cheap. Bitter. Like chemicals and arrogance.

My heart sprints, trying to outrun a memory my body has already chased down.

My therapist calls this a ‘trauma echo’. A ghost of a moment that convinces your body it’s happening again.

I whisper to myself, “This is not then.”

My voice trembles, but I say it again. “This is not then.”

My brain is slower than my body, but eventually, it listens.

My mind betrays me, replaying echoes that don’t belong to this room. I can smell him, hear him, even though I know Damian isn’t here.

“He’s gone.” I repeat this again and again until the words grow teeth, until they bite back the fear. I’ve learned that sometimes survival sounds like repetition. Like reminding yourself what’s true until your body believes it.

Desperate for some grounding, I reach for the tools my therapist taught me. I open the freezer, pulling out a handful of ice, letting the chilling sting anchor me to the present. I can feel the cold biting against my skin, a jolting reminder that I am here now. I close my eyes, taking deep breaths, counting each one as they flow in and out. I focus on my surroundings, naming five things I can see: a framed photograph on the wall, the soft texture of the couch beneath me, a plant standing resolutely in the corner, the light filtering through the curtains, and the clock ticking steadily in the background.

Slowly, the panic begins to recede, my breath steadies, and I find my way back to myself.

My phone buzzes from across the room, Isla’s name lighting up the screen. I stare at it, frozen. I want to answer. I want to tell her I’m okay, that I pulled myself back from the edge alone. But this strange sense of shame coils in my stomach.

She’s always been the strong one. The steady one. The friend who brings fire to every room.

I used to think being strong meant pretending I didn’t need anyone. But now I know the truth: strength is choosing yourself even when fear screams louder.

The call stops.

A text appears.