Page 47 of Shattered Obsession

-Thalia-

The apartment feels hauntingly quiet without Xander’s presence. The familiar sound of his heavy boots thudding against the floor as he enters, the low, almost melodic hum that escapes his lips when he’s engrossed in a task, and the rhythmic clinking of tools he seems to absentmindedly fiddle with in moments of restlessness are absent, leaving an emptiness that echoes in the corners of the room. Just me.

A strange heaviness settles over the apartment, as if the silence itself is watching me. I wander from room to room without purpose, not cleaning, not organizing, just circling. The quiet should be peaceful, but it presses against my ribs like a weight I can’t shift.

I run my hand over the back of the couch, the cool leather grounding me for a moment.

I tell myself that I’m safe, but the echo in my chest reminds me that I thought I was safe once before, too.

My therapist used to tell me to try ‘grounding techniques’. Five things you can see, four you can touch, and three you can hear. Back then I didn’t understand why I would ever need it. Now I cling to the list like a lifeline.

Five things I see.

The plant on the windowsill. The blanket tossed carelessly on the couch. The chipped mug from the thrift shop. The crooked picture frame I keep meaning to fix. The door locked. Definitely locked.

Four things I can touch.

The seam of the couch cushion. My necklace, warm from my skin. The cold metal handle of the kettle. My phone, slick against my palm.

Three things I can hear.

The refrigerator hum. A car outside. My own heartbeat—too fast, too loud.

Sometimes grounding works.

Sometimes fear laughs in my face.

I press a hand to my chest, waiting for the panic to pass. It feels ridiculous that silence can terrify me more than screaming ever did. But fear doesn’t need noise. It only needs memory.

I curl up on the couch, wrapping myself in a soft, warm blanket and clutching a well-worn book against my chest. This moment of normalcy, a slice of peace, is exactly what I used to yearn for in the chaos of life.

But as I read, the words on the pages begin to blur. My thoughts drift, wandering aimlessly as I find myself straining to catch sounds that are conspicuously absent. I swear I hear footsteps in the hallway outside the apartment, slow and deliberate.

I freeze, listening.

Nothing.

My pulse slowly returns to normal. I tell myself that I’m imagining things. But am I?

The refrigerator whirs quietly in the background, a steady pulse that is oddly comforting. Outside, a car rolls by, its engine a muted roar that pulls my attention for a split second. My breathing comes out in uneven bursts, an uneasy rhythm that doesn’t match the stillness surrounding me.

It’s fine. It’s perfectly fine.

The quiet reminds me of that night.

The moment before everything went wrong wasn’t loud; it was silent.

Too silent.

No warning sirens. No dramatic music. Just stillness.

That same stillness presses against my ears now.

A floorboard creaks in the hallway outside the apartment, and every muscle in my body locks. I stare at the door like I expect it to breathe. My pulse pounds so loudly I’m convinced it could echo under the door and give me away.

You’re safe.

You’re safe.