A New Chapter

Broken Pieces

Elara stared at the blank page of her journal, the only thing that felt somewhat within her control these days. Journaling had become a ritual, an attempt to sort out the mess of her emotions. She wasn't sure when it started to feel like a necessity, but now she found herself turning to the pages whenever the anxiety built up to the point where her thoughts seemed to collide into each other. At least with the journal, she could give them a place to sit and breathe.

She felt calmer when it came to Harrison. The pain of their relationship still left bruises, but it didn't sting as much. Writing about him was her way of taking control of the narrative. Harrison had been a storm in her life, but she had weathered it. Now, in the aftermath, she was left with the pieces. She reflected on how she could have let herself be treated that way. But it didn't matter anymore. The wound was closing.

Still, her journaling didn't touch everything. No matter how much she wrote about Harrison or how she'd been wronged, the gnawing pit of social anxiety remained. That felt harder to deal with, something she couldn't just write off. It was different from the tangible scars of a bad relationship. This was internal, harder to name, harder to fight. Elara often wondered if she would always be this way—quiet, anxious, afraid of being rejected by the very people she wanted to connect with.

She was still angry at her father, who had left her behind for another family. She thought of the kids he now shared his life with, how he had chosen them over her, even after promising to always be there. How could she believe that anyone else would stick around when even her own father had abandoned her? It was like a wound that reopened every time he crossed her mind. He'd tried to make up for it, sending her to Singapore as if a vacation could fix years of neglect. His apology had been hollow, just like their relationship. She had felt like an afterthought, even then.

"Maybe this will help your mental health," he had said, but she had seen through it. It wasn't for her; it was to ease his own guilt. The trip hadn't healed anything, and in her journal, she wrote about how inadequate she felt. No trip or hollow apologies could change that.

Her friends didn't help much, either. Elara was constantly afraid that they only kept her around out of pity. She had become so insecure, always questioning whether people were truly interested in her or if they were just being polite. Did they want to be friends with her, or was she just convenient? The anxiety gnawed at her. She reminded herself, again and again, that people didn't judge her the way she feared, but that logic often crumbled in the face of her emotions.

Most days, she would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind eerily blank. No thoughts, no solutions, just a heavy fog of sadness that pressed down on her chest. It was hard to find motivation. Why try when it felt like nothing was ever going to change? She had moments of clarity in therapy, realizing that Harrison's treatment had been abusive, but it was hard to accept. How had she let it happen? How had she allowed herself to be diminished like that? Even as she confronted the truth, sadness wrapped itself around her heart. Acceptance came slowly, dragging her emotions through the mud.

Sometimes, Harrison still reached out to her, not with apologies, but with sarcastic remarks. He liked to remind her that he had been the worst thing that happened to her, almost as if he were proud of it. "I'm glad I'm your worst ex," he had said once, half laughing, half mocking. But the words that lingered the most—the ones that haunted her—were from when he used to tell her, "You're only going to destroy everyone you love. Just wait." He'd thrown that at her during their worst arguments, and it left deep scars.

She could never shake the feeling that maybe he was right. The thought of being someone who ruins relationships terrified her. His words stuck to her like glue, creeping into her thoughts even long after he was gone. It made her doubt herself, her relationships with others, and her worth. How could she fully trust her friends when she was afraid she'd hurt them somehow, just like Harrison had told her she would? The weight of his words dragged her down, making her feel like she was destined to fail, destined to be alone.

Her journaling helped her sort through some of it, but not all. There were still things that writing couldn't fix—things like her deep-rooted fears of never being enough, of always being the one left behind, just like her father had left her. But for now, she continued to write, hoping that somewhere on the page, she'd find a version of herself who felt whole again.

In therapy, she started talking more about this—about how much Harrison's words still affected her. Her therapist gently encouraged her to see the manipulation for what it was, to recognize that Harrison had been using his words as a weapon, not as a truth. But that didn't make it easier. She struggled to shake the belief that she was the problem, that somehow she was too damaged to maintain healthy relationships. The therapy sessions left her emotionally drained, peeling back layers of her hurt, but they were necessary. She had to learn to unhear his voice in her head and replace it with her own.

Acceptance was a slow process. Even as part of her started to understand that she wasn't to blame for Harrison's abuse, it didn't make the journey easier. She had been broken down for so long that rebuilding felt impossible some days. She often left therapy feeling raw, unsure if she would ever truly heal.

But still, she kept going. She had to.