Unchained

Chapter One: Present Day

The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed on her chest, each second stretching thin as though the walls were slowly closing in. Rhea sat at her kitchen table, her fingers clasped around a mug of coffee that had long gone cold. The city outside felt distant and detached, its lights flickering dimly beyond her window, their colors softened by the early evening fog. She wondered if the people in those distant buildings felt this same emptiness, the same silence that hovered like a ghost, waiting. Her eyes traced the delicate lines running along the rim of the mug, following them like patterns in a maze. Her therapist had called these "grounding exercises," little rituals to anchor herself to the present moment. The simple, tangible things she could touch and hold—she needed them, a tether that kept her from slipping too far into the past. But tonight, the silence was thicker, and the memories pulled harder. Her hand trembled as it hovered over the mug, not quite touching it. She didn't need the coffee. She just needed something to occupy her hands, something to focus on other than the persistent, gnawing dread that filled her chest, leaving her short of breath. It was the kind of dread that didn't have a name, a restless unease that lingered even when nothing particular was wrong. It was the kind of feeling that made her question everything about herself—her worth, her strength, her sanity.

"Twenty-six," she whispered to herself, as if saying it out loud would make it feel more real. She repeated it, counting the years like she'd counted the days as a child, trying to remind herself that she had made it this far. She had survived. Twenty-six years old. She let the words hang in the air, a mantra, a reassurance.

Her survival was something tangible, measurable. She clung to the number like it was a life raft, like it could somehow protect her from the memories that clawed at her whenever she was alone in the quiet. But no amount of time, no number of years, could dull the sharp edges of the past. The memories were like broken glass embedded in her skin, invisible to others but painfully present, slicing through her in moments like these. During the day, it was easier to pretend. She could drown herself in the rhythm of routine, hiding behind the small, predictable movements of daily life. There was safety in the ordinary—going to work, running errands, making dinner. But when the sun dipped below the horizon, when there were no voices, no tasks, no distractions, her past crept back in, slipping through the cracks of her mind and filling the room with shadows. The silence held her in place, like a cage she could never quite escape. A sudden creak from the hallway made her flinch, her body reacting before her mind could register the sound. She forced herself to exhale, grounding herself in the reality of her apartment, reminding herself that she was safe, that it was only a neighbor or the pipes settling. But her body didn't quite believe it. Her shoulders remained tense, her heart pounding with a speed that didn't match the stillness of her surroundings. The feeling was familiar, a whisper of the hypervigilance she'd learned as a child, the way her senses had always been on high alert, even in the quietest moments. She knew exactly why she felt this way tonight. Tomorrow marked an anniversary, a date etched into her memory, one she couldn't forget even if she wanted to. It was the kind of anniversary that others might let slip by, unnoticed, but to her, it was an unspoken reminder, a quiet ache that lingered under the surface of her skin. She could feel it there, like a bruise she couldn't see but couldn't ignore. Her gaze drifted to the small drawer by the sink, where an unopened journal lay tucked away, untouched since she'd brought it home. Her therapist had suggested she write things down, encouraged her to confront her memories in a place where she could control them.

"Put them on paper," her therapist had said, "give them a space outside of yourself." But the idea felt strange, even wrong. How could she possibly distill her pain into words? What if the act of writing it down made it too real, too tangible? For a moment, she considered opening the journal.

She imagined pouring her heart onto the pages, allowing the ink to soak up her fears, her hopes, and everything in between. But the thought terrified her. What if she unleashed something she couldn't contain? What if the words took on a life of their own, exposing her vulnerabilities in a way she wasn't ready for? Instead, she pushed her chair back and rose from the table, the legs scraping against the floor as she moved. She wandered into the living room, her eyes darting to the window. The streetlights outside glowed like beacons in the dark, illuminating the empty sidewalks. A couple walked by, laughing, their joy echoing through the night. She felt a pang of envy, an ache for the kind of normalcy they seemed to embody. She turned away, returning to the kitchen. The shadows in her apartment felt heavier now, as if they were growing darker, wrapping around her like a suffocating blanket. Rhea took a deep breath, attempting to dispel the tightness in her chest. She glanced at the clock; it was still early, but sleep would not come easily tonight.

As she leaned against the counter, she wondered if she'd ever truly escape the past. Each year, the anniversary brought the same storm of emotions, and each year she fought to stay afloat. But she was tired of fighting. Tired of feeling trapped in a cycle that refused to break. She picked up her phone, scrolling through her contacts. Should she call someone? She hesitated, the weight of her secrets pressing down on her. Who would understand? Who would know how to comfort her when she couldn't even find the words to describe her pain? Finally, she put the phone down and took one last look at the journal. Maybe tomorrow, she thought, maybe tomorrow she would find the courage to open it. For now, she allowed herself a moment of stillness, staring out at the city that continued to pulse with life, while she remained stagnant, frozen in a moment that felt endless. Tomorrow would come. It always did. But the dread of it settled heavily in her stomach. With a sigh, she turned off the lights, letting the darkness envelop her as she prepared to face another night, another chapter in a story that felt too painful to tell.