Page 21 of Shattered Obsession

The name hangs between us, a specter of my past. I watch as Xander’s entire body freezes at the sound.

“What do you mean ‘him’?” he asks, his voice a low growl that echoes the tension in the room.

“He kept calling me,” I admit, each word like glass scraping against the rawness in my throat. “Blocked number. For weeks.” I take a shaky breath, recalling moments of panic when my phone vibrated. “I ignored it until I snapped, and then I answered. The moment I heard his voice, I hung up. Just like that.”

A curse escapes Xander’s lips, sharp and bitter. His fists clench tight against his knees, knuckles turning white under the strain.

I need to explain, to soothe the anger that is brewing in his gaze.

“I couldn’t take it anymore. So, I unblocked him and texted. I told him to stop contacting me. I told him I’d never go out with him again.” My voice quivers as I continue. “He simply replied ‘okay,’ and then I blocked him again. I kept screenshots, just in case.”

The silence that follows is loud, punctuated only by the sound of my own labored breaths.

When Xander finally speaks, his voice is rough and strained with emotion. “I want to kill him.”

I flinch at his words, not because I believe he would ever hurt me, but because they bring back a flood of memories I desperately wish to forget. The threats, the weight of his hands around my throat, the suffocating dread. Xander quickly notices my reaction, and the fury in his eyes melts away, replaced with a tenderness that reaches deep. His warm, steady hand finds mine, grounding me, pulling me back into the present.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— I’d never scare you like that. I just… God, Thalia, the thought of him touching you, hurting you, still trying to reach you.” His jaw clenches, and I can see his chest rising and falling too quickly, his own tempest beneath the surface. I squeeze his hand, trying to pull strength from his presence.

“I needed him to stop. I couldn’t just sit here waiting for the next blocked call. I had to do something.”

His grip around my hand grows tighter, not out of anger, but in solidarity.

“You’re right. You did what you had to do. And I’m proud of you for standing up to him.”

The tears spill over unexpectedly, hot and sudden, as a wave of emotion crashes over me. “But I’m not okay, Xander. I’m not. He’s gone, yes, but he’s still in my head. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

He pulls me close, arms enveloping me like a protective cocoon. “You don’t have to make it stop alone. You have me. Whatever it takes—therapy, sitting with you through the nights, holding you when the weight gets too heavy—I’ll do it. I’m not leaving. Not ever.”

His words penetrate deep, soothing some raw part of me that I thought was beyond repair. For the first time since hearing that voice on the phone, a flicker of panic slinks away, just a little. Because, in this moment, I believe him.

Healing isn’t linear; I know that now. It’s jagged, unpredictable, and sometimes cruel in its timing. But tonight, as I sit, wrapped in his arms, I catch a glimpse of something I’ve chased for years—quiet. Not the suffocating kind that used to follow pain, but the kind that hums with possibility. The kind that tells me my story isn’t ending here; it’s only changing shape. Tomorrow will still hurt. Tomorrow will still demand courage. But tonight, I rest.

Despite my attempts to confront the truth, the nightmares don’t hesitate to return. They invade my nights with merciless precision. I often wake up drenched in cold sweat, my throat sore from a scream I can’t recall releasing. The terror leaves me gasping for breath, clawing my way out of the suffocating nightmare—the icy grip of his hands around my neck, the sinister whispers in my ear, the incessant dread of being trapped with no escape.

Xander is a constant presence, always there before the panic can swallow me whole. He doesn’t ask questions I can’t answer, nor does he minimize my terror with platitudes about dreams. Instead, he just holds me, cradling me against his warm body, murmuring soft reassurances into my hair until my heartbeat gradually finds its rhythm again. Sometimes, the simple act of his presence is enough to ease my fear. Other times, it falls short.

During the daylight hours, the aftershocks of my fear linger like ghosts. I jump at the sound of my phone ringing, even when it’s just a friend’s cheerful voice on the other end. My chest constricts in panic when a car slows down too close to the curb. Crowded rooms pulse with anxiety, and bursts of laughter send prickles of dread crawling across my skin.

Xander is always around, always attentive.

He starts to implement little routines that feel remarkably grounding, like reminding me to text him when I get to class or call him when I’m heading home. When I occasionally forget, he doesn’t scold or chastise me. Instead, he sends a quick message with some variant of reassurance, such as that he’s thinking of me. It should feel stifling, but instead, it blankets me with a sense of safety I desperately crave.

One evening, I find him sitting on the balcony, grease smudged across his cheek from working on his truck. When he looks up, a grin breaks across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, but it falters as he notices my expression, the tiredness etched in my features and the hollowness in my gaze.

Later, as we curl up together on the couch, feeling the warmth of his body against mine, I whisper, “You’re not tired of this? Of me? Of all of this?”

He kisses the top of my head, a gentle affirmation. “No. Because you’re not just what happened to you. You’re you. And I love you.”

His words settle deep within, a heavy but comforting weight in my chest. I want to believe him. I want to believe I am more than just my scars. And with him here beside me, perhaps I can learn to embrace that truth.

CHAPTER SEVEN

-Xander-

I notice everything about her, each subtle detail she believes she can hide. It’s in the way her hands tremble when the phone call she’s waiting for goes unanswered, a barely perceptible shake that speaks volumes. I catch the way her eyes flit nervously to the door in crowded spaces, a reflex as if she were plotting her escape route from the chaos around her. And when she laughs, sometimes it feels like the sound dies too quickly, shadows creeping back into her gaze before the joy has a real chance to settle. She has no idea that I see it all, that I catch these glimpses of her internal struggle. But I do, and it devastates me, because I would give anything to take that pain away from her.

We sit on the balcony together. Thalia curls into the corner of the wooden porch swing, the seat cushion and pillows supporting her, her knees drawn up to her chest, gazing into the darkness with a look that seems so far away. I reach out and take her hand gently in mine, sensing her startled blink as if I’ve pulled her from a place deep within her thoughts.