Chapter 5 #2
The words excitedly tumble out. I tell her that he was so sweet and so incredibly nervous, that he paid for everything, and that we talked about so many things. I show her the book I got and the bear that we built together.
“I have a good feeling about him,” she says as she gets up to go home. We say goodbye, and she leaves me with the butterflies in my stomach.
I have a shower and find my dog, Bella, snoozing on my bed. My phone lights up, and I already know who it is before I check.
Xander
I’m home and getting ready for bed. I had fun today. Goodnight.
Thalia
I had fun too. Goodnight.
Weeks slide by, each day punctuated by a flurry of messages that bridge the distance between me and Xander. I go back to attending my classes at university after taking a break. It feels good to regain normalcy, like I’m finally putting the assault behind me.
Our days start to map around each other in small, invisible ways.
He wakes up at seven a.m. but doesn’t send me a good morning text until I wake up for class at 9 a.m. Between my first and second classes, I get a text to tell me that he’s having his lunch, and he’ll ask me how my day’s going.
When I get home, I focus on studying until he calls me to tell me he’s finished work, and the conversation flows easily from there.
Every tiny routine becomes a thread stitching my life back together.
Yet sometimes I catch myself rereading the messages hours later, afraid they’ll vanish, afraid he will.
Fear has a long memory. The rhythm of routine helps the days go by quickly—classes, lunch, home, study, and finally, dinner.
Even the nights start to blur together, soft and ordinary in the best way.
Sometimes we talk until dawn, our messages looping into quiet confessions about nothing and everything.
Childhood memories, fears that sneak in at 2 a.m., favorite songs that feel like secrets.
I find myself smiling at my phone more than I ever thought possible.
Even the silence between texts feels different now, less like absence and more like rest. Every conversation becomes a thread in a tapestry I didn’t know I was weaving, a small defiance against the loneliness that used to live here.
Isla still checks in, meeting me for lunch occasionally when our class schedules intersect or coming over for dinner with her dog, Bailey, so the girls can play.
It’s been really helpful, the routine and having Isla and Xander to talk to and vent when needed.
It makes my life feel less empty than it had and gives me something positive to look forward to each day.
Yet, amidst this newfound certainty, my fears lurk like shadows.
Any subtle shift in his tone sends me spiraling into anxiety.
An unread message lingers and panic bubbles.
We’re okay, right?
Did I say something wrong?
Is he abandoning me?
The self-doubt claws at my mind—I ask too often and apologize too much, the words spilling out before I can catch them.
“I’m sorry.”
“I love you.”
“I don’t want to ruin this.”
But he stays. He doesn’t retreat into silence.
Instead, he listens as I stumble through my insecurities, even when I’m drowning in self-criticism for needing that reassurance.
He becomes my anchor, holding me steady when I feel I’m drifting too far out to sea.
Yet, even as he offers me solace, the chilling whisper remains.
What if I break this? What if I lose him too?
I asked Xander to come round. The past weighs heavily, and I know he can feel it too, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
My journal rests heavily in my lap, its worn leather cover a testament to the secrets it holds, almost as if it possesses its own understanding of the burden I’m about to share. My fingers glide along the edge of the pages, hesitant and trembling, caught in a moment of stalling dread.
Across from me, Xander observes, an unwavering presence. He doesn’t prod or push me, respecting the silence that fills the space between us. His steady gaze is like an anchor, grounding me in the tumult of my emotions.
“I need to tell you something,” I finally whisper, the words tearing at my throat as they emerge. The weight of my confession looms large. “All of it.”
His jaw tightens slightly, a flicker of apprehension in his eyes, yet he nods, signaling his readiness to listen. “Okay. Whatever you need,” he replies, voice calm and reassuring.
With trembling hands, I pass him the journal.
As it leaves my grasp, a splitting-like sensation forms in my chest, a mixture of relief and overwhelming sadness.
Each page is stained with my emotions and meticulous detail of experiences I’ve tried so desperately to expel from my mind and imprint onto paper because carrying them inside felt insurmountable.
He accepts the journal with care, as if cradling something exceedingly fragile.
While he reads, I sit frozen, my pulse thrumming through my veins.
I bite down on my nails, the sharp edges digging into my palms as anxiety mounts and my throat constricts with each labored swallow.
In my mind, I replay the devastating memories.
The confines of the apartment, the oppressive weight of the bed, the couch that witnessed my silent suffering, the suffocating grip that stole my breath, and the venomous threats that clawed at my sanity.
My body recalls each cruel mark, an unrelenting reminder of my past.
Finally, I summon the courage I’ve been mustering for so long and reach into my pocket to retrieve my phone, hands shaking.
The images remain, captured in time, stark in their brutality.
The mottled bruises on my neck, reminders of violence.
The broken skin of my arm, where teeth had savaged my flesh.
The scars lining my thighs and wrists, indelible proof etched into my very being.
As Xander scrolls through the photos, I notice the transformation in his face.
His expression darkens with a storm of emotions, his jaw clenches, and I see the whiteness of his knuckles as he grips the phone, barely containing his fury.
When he finally looks up, his eyes blaze with a fierce intensity.
“I want to kill him,” he growls, his voice low and trembling with barely restrained anger. “I swear to God, Thalia, I want to find him right now.”
For a fleeting moment, panic flares in my chest. Not directed at Xander, never at him, but at the raw violence that laces his words, an echo of the very thing I’ve escaped. I shake my head, tears beginning to pool in my eyes, threatening to spill over.
“I don’t need you to hurt him,” I manage to say. “I just… I need you to understand.”
In an instant, the fire in his eyes begins to morph, and the savagery gives way to understanding.
He sets the phone down carefully and takes my hands in his warm grasp.
He begins to rub gentle circles against my skin, an instinctive gesture that feels like a balm against the memory of bruises that haunt me.
“I do understand,” he assures me, his voice steady, the resolve unwavering. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to help you feel safe. Just tell me what you need.”
At that, the dam inside me finally breaks.
The sobs erupt, choking and relentless, crashing over me like a wave.
But Xander is already there, his arms encircling me with a strength I never knew I needed, holding me steady.
He doesn’t flinch at my vulnerability; he doesn’t pull away.
For the first time, in the warmth of his embrace, I believe him when he says I’m not alone.
The air outside hums with summer, heavy and electric, and through the window, I can see the faint outline of dawn beginning to stain the sky.
I realize I’ve survived another night. In his arms, the silence isn’t something to fear anymore—it’s proof that I made it here, that I’m still breathing.
When his thumb strokes the back of my hand, it feels like a vow unspoken.
The world can try to break us, but it doesn’t get the final word. I let my eyes close and whisper to myself, so quietly it’s almost nothing, “I’m still here.”