Page 73 of Shattered Obsession

Count each vein.

Because if I don’t latch onto something, I’ll float away.

My therapist calls it grounding. I call it survival.

Bella pads over and rests her chin on my knee, her emotional support technique, which works better than anything licensed professionals have ever told me. I press my palm to her soft fur and breathe.

In through the nose.

Out slowly through the mouth.

I whisper into her ear, “We’re okay. We’re safe.”

I don’t know if she understands the words, but she understands the tone.

She stays.

Right beside me.

Always.

A car door slams outside; my pulse spikes. Someone walks past the door; I stop breathing. The building settles; I flinch. My body reacts like he’s still here, hiding just out of sight. It’s humiliating, being haunted by things that no longer exist. Sometimes the trauma feels like an echo. Other times, like a prophecy.

The refrigerator hums louder than normal, its sound creeping into the space, while the pipes overhead burble and groan. Every tiny noise makes me flinch as if they’re punctuating the isolation I now feel. I find myself sitting on the couch, the laptop perched open in front of me, a façade of productivity.

Instead of writing, I scroll aimlessly through old playlists, reliving songs I haven’t listened to since before everything changed. Music once served as my refuge, but now it feels like the universe is mocking me, each lyric resonating with my pain and despair. The songs that used to feel like romance now hurt. Love songs sound like lies whispered by men in the dark. I turn the volume down. Then down again.

Silence feels safer. But then silence becomes loud.

My thoughts—that’s where the real danger is.

I stand and begin to pace, feeling the urge to channel my restlessness into motion. Bella lifts her head from her favorite spot on the floor, her big, concerned eyes tracking my movements. I force a smile, offering her a pitiful attempt at assurance.

“I’m okay, girl. Just a little restless.” Deep down, I know I should feel grateful for the relative safety this apartment provides, yet ‘safety’ feels more like a costume I cannot quite wear. It’s constricting and itchy, slipping away the moment I’m left alone with my thoughts.

Minutes stretch into hours. Hours stretch into something longer. There is nothing dramatic happening. But trauma doesn’t need a threat to feel threatened. Sometimes… the absence of danger is what feels dangerous. The hours drag on, each ticking second stammering by, a clock eternally reminding me of my solitude.

When Xander’s familiar headlights shine through the window in the evening, a tidal wave of relief crashes over me, almost buckling my knees.

I realize I’ve been holding my breath all day, waiting for his return. When he finally steps inside, I rush to him, throwing my arms around his neck. The embrace feels like a lifeline, grounding me after a day of feeling lost in the shadows of my own mind.

“You made it through,” he whispers softly against my hair, his voice full of warmth and belief. “See? You’re stronger than you think.”

Strength. If only he knew it doesn’t feel like strength. It feels like surviving by instinct. Strength implies choice. Survival does not.

I nod, clinging tighter, but the truth remains locked away. I don’t feel strong. I feel hollow. And sometimes, being hollow is far worse than the weight of despair.

As night falls, the atmosphere seems to thicken, the shadows creeping into every corner of the room. The silence is no longer just quiet; it’s almost suffocating. Instead of letting it crush me, I find myself pacing once again, my bare feet barely making a sound against the soft carpet. Thoughts race through my mind, echoing Xander’s earlier words about strength, his unwavering faith in my ability to overcome. He means every word, and there’s a sincerity in his belief that makes me ache. Yet, I know he’s mistaken about one crucial aspect. Strength isn’t merely about surviving. It’s about transforming that survival, channeling the fear and panic into something like fire.

When I close my eyes, Damian’s face invades my mind, his chilling smirk, dripping with the insidious lies he used to weave, and that insufferable voice whispering that this was what I wanted. For weeks, drowning in that memory had felt like being trapped within the confines of a cage. But tonight… Tonight is different. Although the pain remains sharp and relentless, it feels more like a weapon, a tool I could wield against him. As I sink onto the couch, pulling the frayed blanket tighter around my shoulders, Bella nudges my leg, her warm presence a soothing balm against my spiraling thoughts.

I scratch behind her ears, feeling the comfort of something steady as I murmur, “We’re okay.” The words escape my lips like a vow rather than a mere reassurance because I’m beginning to recognize a fierce truth within myself. I don’t just want to survive him. I want to end him. And that realization no longer frightens me.

Bella nudges my hand again, warm and insistent. How unfair that she understands emotional regulation better than most men. I envy her simplicity; she doesn’t worry about the past or future. She just exists. Sometimes I wish I could exist without memory.

Anger settles beneath my ribs like gasoline. Nobody sees it, not even Xander. They see a survivor. They don’t see the storm.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX