Page 39 of Shattered Obsession

Isla

Just checking in. No pressure.

I swallow hard, the sting of tears rising.

Thalia

Thank you.

Not an explanation.

Not a performance.

Just thanks.

And that feels like enough.

When it passes, I feel emptied out, like the tide has gone out and left everything bare. My reflection in the mirror across the room looks different—eyes red and chest heaving—but there’s something new there too. Strength. The kind you earn by clawing your way back from the edge.

By the time I collapse onto the couch, my heart still races but starts to find a steadier rhythm. Exhaustion settles over me like a comforting blanket, and I realize something significant—I managed that. Alone. Not flawlessly, and certainly not without pain, but I found a way through the storm.

Later, when Xander texts me, telling me he misses me and asking if I want him to come round, I almost don’t reply, afraid that answering will ruin the fragile independence I just built. But his text doesn’t feel like an anchor; it feels like sunlight sneaking in through the blinds.

So, I type back. My fingers tremble, not from fear this time, but from something close to pride. A smile spreads across my face.

Thalia

Yes. But I’m okay.

And for the first time in a long while, it feels genuinely true.

The therapist greets me with a warm smile as I sink into the plush chair across from her. Her pen hovers above her notepad, waiting for my words. “How have you been since we last spoke?”

I can’t help the little grin that tugs at my mouth. “Good. Actually… really good.”

I notice her brow arch gently in curiosity. “Tell me about that.”

Taking a steadying breath, I fiddle with the soft sleeve of my sweater, feeling its warmth against my skin. “Xander spent the day at his house yesterday. Which meant I was at home alone.”

“Alone,” she echoes softly. “And how did that feel?”

“Scary at first.” My laugh is a bit shaky, breaking the silence. “The apartment was so quiet. I thought I was going to crawl out of my skin. But I didn’t call him. I didn’t run. I turned on music, letting the rhythm fill the empty spaces. I ate a leisurely breakfast, taking my time with each bite. I even curled up with a book and lost myself in the story for a while.”

“And when it wasn’t easy?”

Talking about progress is scarier than talking about pain.

When I don't answer, she continues. “Thalia… why does your progress scare you?”

I pick at a loose string on my sweater. “Because if I say I’m doing better, and then I break again… I’ll disappoint everyone.”

“Progress isn’t a straight line. And it’s not a debt you owe. You’re afraid that healing means forgetting what happened, but healing doesn’t erase your past; it simply means it doesn’t drive you anymore.”

I don’t argue. I just listen.

Pain is predictable—it has an order, a rhythm I’ve learned to survive. Joy, though, feels volatile, like it could vanish if I look at it too directly. But as I sit across from her, I realize how good it feels to name something beautiful and not apologize for it.

My smile falters at the memory. “The panic still came crashing in. I froze up for a while, overwhelmed by the silence, and thought, ‘This is it. I can’t do this.’ But then I remembered what you told me. I grabbed an ice cube from the freezer and counted my breaths slowly. I named five things I could see around me. And… it worked.” Suddenly, the tears well up, spilling over my lashes. “I did it. By myself.”