Chapter 53

When I woke, the living room was soaked in gray light, the kind that blurred lines between night and morning. I wasn’t sure how long I’d slept, only that I had. Deeply, dreamlessly. For the first time in what felt like days, my body had unclenched.

Jackson was still in the armchair beside me, his head tilted slightly back, arms folded across his chest like he’d fought off sleep as long as he could and lost the battle most quietly. Our hands were still tangled together between the couch cushion and his knee, fingers loosely laced like neither of us had let go, even unconsciously.

I didn’t move right away. There was comfort in stillness, in breathing in the space between us. After the message. After the necklace. After last night. The terror hadn’t vanished—but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It was a thread I could feel beneath my skin, but no longer wrapped around my throat.

I looked at him again. This man, who had held every part of me without flinching. Who had kissed the broken places like they weren’t proof of failure, but of survival. Who had made me feel like mine again.

His lashes fluttered, and his gaze found mine. Sleep-hazy but alert, like he never quite let his guard down.

“Morning,” he rasped, voice rough with sleep and something tender.

“Morning,” I whispered back.

He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You okay?”

I nodded. “Getting there.”

By the time Dom arrived with bagels and real coffee, I had already taken a shower, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, and opened all the blinds in the house. I didn’t want shadows today. I didn’t want corners where silence could fester.

Dom raised an eyebrow at the sunlight pouring in. “Making a statement?”

“Maybe,” I said, shrugging. “Or maybe I’m just done letting yesterday dictate today.”

He handed me a paper bag with a cinnamon-raisin bagel inside. “That’s a good answer.”

We sat at the table together—me, Jackson, and Dom—sharing a strange kind of domestic silence. It wasn’t heavy. Just full. Like we were all trying to figure out how to move forward without pretending the ground hadn’t shifted beneath us.

Dom broke the quiet first. “There’s a survivor group I’ve been helping with. Quiet stuff—security consults, checking their privacy settings, making sure they have resources. They meet every other Wednesday. You don’t have to say anything. Just be in the room.”

I looked at him. Then at Jackson. Then back again. “I’ve thought about it. I just never—”

“Felt ready,” Dom finished for me. “I get it. That’s why I’m saying it now. You might be.”

I didn’t answer right away. But I didn’t say no.

Later that afternoon, Jackson asked if I wanted to go out—not for errands, not to run or hide—just to get some air, stretch our legs, and move through the world instead of around it.

We walked the long path around campus, where the trees filtered the sunlight into golden ribbons. My fingers brushed his as we walked, and he took my hand without question, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Students passed us in clusters—laughing, shouting, living. None of them looked at me. None of them knew. And somehow, that anonymity felt like a blessing.

There was a bulletin board near the main quad. Flyers and student art, announcements for open mic nights, and mental health panels. One in particular caught my eye:

“Redefining the Narrative: A Discussion on Consent and Survival”

Presented by Student Advocates for Healing and Change

Next Thursday at 6 pm. All voices welcome.

I stared at it longer than I meant to. My feet rooted to the concrete, breath caught in my throat.

“You thinking about going?” Jackson asked, voice low and gentle beside me.

I didn’t know. Not yet.

“I’m thinking about not looking away anymore,” I said softly.

He didn’t press. Just squeezed my hand once, then again.

That night, after dinner, soft music, and a long moment in which we both lingered in the kitchen, not quite ready to say goodnight, I opened my laptop for the first time in days.

The screen glowed softly against the dim light of the living room. I stared at the blinking cursor, my fingers poised but unmoving.

I didn’t plan to write anything specific. I didn’t outline, draft, or prepare myself for grief. I just started typing.

First, his name.

Then mine.

Then the story between us—crooked, violent, silent too long.

The words weren’t perfect. Some of them came jagged and heavy, others trembling and unsure. I wrote about the necklace. About the days I pretended I was fine. About the nights, I convinced myself it wasn’t that bad. I wrote until the ache in my hands matched the ache in my chest, and still I didn’t stop.

Not because I knew what I was going to do with it.

But I needed to hear my voice again.

Jackson didn’t ask questions when he joined me on the couch. He just sat beside me, arm warm against mine, eyes scanning the screen slowly. At some point, he slipped his hand into mine again, grounding me the same way he had last night. Not with words. With presence.

“I don’t want him to have the last word,” I said, voice quiet but steady.

He turned to look at me. “He won’t.”