Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
-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.
But my brain whispers back.
You were safe once before, and look how that ended.
I pad softly into the kitchen, my bare feet making little noise against the cool tiles, and pour water into the kettle.
The gentle bubbling as it heats brings a sense of familiarity.
I wrap my hands around the steaming mug of tea like it’s an anchor, grounding me in this solitude.
The first sip is warm and soothing, spreading comfort through me.
I hold the mug with both hands and inhale the steam, letting the peppermint unclench the knots hiding beneath my ribs.
It reminds me of childhood winters, of safety.
Back when trust wasn’t something that could be broken like thin glass.
When I pass by the window, a wave of unease crashes over me. For a fleeting moment, I swear I spot a familiar car idling on the street. I freeze, my heart racing as I stare too long, waiting breathlessly. But as the car pulls away, the tension in my chest dissipates like mist in the sunlight.
Paranoia. That’s all it is.
Determined not to let my mind spiral deeper into anxious thoughts, I turn away from the window and occupy myself with small tasks.
The rest of the day trickles by in fragmented snippets, scribbling thoughts and feelings in my journal.
My handwriting is tense, letters sharp and uneven, like my thoughts are carving themselves into the page instead of resting on it.
I write about mundane things—dinner ideas, grocery lists—as if pretending everything is normal will trick my brain into believing it.
But the words shift.
He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s not gone enough.
The pen shakes in my hand. A tiny smear of ink bleeds where a tear lands on the page. I slam the journal closed and push it away.
I used to romanticize journaling, the cozy girl with the coffee aesthetic.
Now the page looks like a crime scene.
Ink smears like bruises.
Words feel like confessions.
Sometimes I wonder if trauma leaves fingerprints, tiny invisible marks on every surface I touch. As if someone could dust my life and find evidence. Here is where she learned to flinch, here is where she stopped trusting herself, and here is where her heart split.
I flip to a blank page and force myself to write one sentence.
You are not what he did to you.
The letters shake.
But they stay on the page.
And somehow, that feels like rebellion.
After flipping aimlessly through television channels, I doze off on the couch, the blanket wrapped snugly around me. Every so often, a compulsion pulls me to wake and look at my phone, where I reread the last text Xander sent.
Xander
Heading to work now, baby. I’ll be home later. Miss you already.
It’s silly, really, how much comfort those simple words provide amidst the stillness.
I type, ‘Miss you too,’ and hover over the send button, then delete it, rewriting the message five times.
I want to say, ‘Don’t be gone long.’ I want to say, ‘I hate the silence without you in it.’ Instead, I send a simple emoji, a heart.
His read receipt appears instantly. Somehow, that makes breathing easier.
I stare at my phone long after the message sends.
I want to tell him everything—every fear, every spiral, every shadow—but I keep it to myself because I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, the darkness will swallow him too. Loving someone after trauma feels like walking barefoot into the future, unsure if there are landmines buried ahead.
Xander doesn’t ask me to be healed.
He just asks me to stay.
And that scares me more than anything because staying means believing I deserve this.
As time drags on, I find myself attuned to the quiet rhythm of the day, but with each tick of the clock, my anticipation grows.
When I finally hear the familiar roar of his truck rumbling into the parking lot, a rush of relief floods through me, sharp and almost dizzying, pushing away the loneliness that had settled in.
I set my mug down carefully on the counter, smoothing my hair back from my face—a nervous habit that I can’t seem to shake.
The moment the key turns in the lock, something inside me unravels.
The door swings open, bringing cold night air and the smell of rain.
Xander fills the doorway, tall, solid, present. My lungs remember how to work.
“Thal?” His voice cuts through the stillness like a warm embrace. It fills the space around me, wrapping me in an intangible warmth that feels like home. A smile tugs at my lips before I can even think to suppress it.
“I’m here,” I reply, my voice soft, yet reverberating with the thrill of his return.
With a swift motion, he drops his gear by the door, metal against wood, a sound that feels achingly normal, and crosses the room in long strides.
He smells like sawdust and cold night wind.
He wraps his arms around me, pulling me close, melting away the stress of his day as soon as our lips meet in a kiss filled with tenderness and depth.
When he hugs me, something in my chest unclenches.
His warmth seeps into my skin like sunlight under ice. No rush. No demand. Just presence.
He cups my jaw gently, not to control, but to hold.
I forgot that someone’s hands can be soft.
He kisses my forehead before my lips.
Every time he does that, I fall a little more.
It feels slow, consuming, as if we’re the only two people in the world and nothing else matters. And in this moment, perhaps I truly am the only thing that matters to him.
He heads toward the bathroom, and I watch him go, broad shoulders, towel slung over one arm, humming under his breath.
I realize something.
He never checks to see if I follow.
He trusts me to stay.
The thought hits harder than it should.
Damian watched the door.
Xander doesn’t even glance back.
Because he doesn’t fear losing me.
He chooses me, every day, without chains.
And I choose him back.
After Xander disappears down the hall toward the shower, steam starts billowing through the door. The water masks every other noise, leaving my heartbeat loud in my ears. Safety has a sound—the shower running means the apartment is sealed and Xander is home.