(Lara's Internal Conflict)
The past didn't come roaring back.
It didn't kick down doors or announce itself with confrontation. There was no dramatic moment she could name, no clear line between before and after.
It crept.
It waited with patience that felt almost intelligent—the way predators do. It waited until Lara felt safe enough to lower her guard. Until laughter no longer startled her. Until mornings arrived without dread coiling tight in her chest. Until peace began to feel less like borrowed time and more like something she might actually deserve.
Then it whispered.
It slipped into her dreams first.
Locked doors that refused to open no matter how hard she pushed. Hallways that stretched longer the faster she ran. Phones that rang endlessly on the other side of walls she couldn't break through.
And his voice.
Never loud. Never shouting.
Calm. Controlled. Almost gentle.
You're being dramatic, Lara.Why do you always make things so difficult?I don't know why you push me to this.
She woke gasping more than once, heart pounding violently against her ribs, fingers clutching the sheets like anchors tethering her to the present. Her lungs burned as if she'd been held underwater, as if her body hadn't yet realized she was safe.
Sydney sunlight streamed through the windows each morning—warm, golden, indifferent. The ocean beyond the city moved in steady rhythms, waves rising and falling without hesitation. Life continued with careless confidence.
Lara tried to convince herself that this was enough.
It wasn't.
She moved through her days competently—too competently. She woke early, followed routines she'd built deliberately. She dressed with intention, ate well, exercised. She showed up to work prepared and composed, answered questions with practiced ease, smiled when expected.
But beneath the surface, something stayed coiled tight.
A vigilance she couldn't turn off.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. A sudden sound made her shoulders tense. A sharp tone made her heart race. When her phone vibrated unexpectedly, her breath stalled for a fraction of a second before she reminded herself where she was.
She noticed exits in unfamiliar rooms without meaning to. She positioned herself instinctively where she could see doors. She scanned faces for shifts—subtle changes in expression, tone, posture—that might signal danger.
It was exhausting.
And worse, she hated herself for it.
Because nothing was wrong.
Not here. Not now.
And yet her body didn't believe that.
Jaden noticed anyway.
He always did.
"You don't sleep," he said gently one morning, handing her a cup of coffee before she could ask. His voice held no accusation—just quiet observation.
"I do," she lied automatically.
The lie slipped out smoothly, polished from years of necessity. She wrapped both hands around the mug, grounding herself in the warmth.
Jaden studied her for a moment longer than necessary. His gaze wasn't sharp or invasive—it was thoughtful. Measuring. Then he nodded once and changed the subject.
That restraint hurt more than confrontation ever could have.
Because it reminded her that he wasn't trying to control the narrative. He wasn't collecting information to use later. He wasn't demanding access to parts of her she hadn't offered.
He was giving her space.
And that made the weight of her silence heavier.
She wasn't used to gentleness without conditions.
She hadn't planned to tell him everything.
Hadn't planned to let anyone this close again.
She'd told herself that survival meant self-containment. That independence meant privacy. That strength meant locking the fragile parts away where no one could touch them.
She believed that letting someone see the cracks meant handing them a map.
But fear has a way of loosening tongues.
And silence, she was learning, could be its own kind of violence.
The evening the words finally broke free, rain streaked down the windows in uneven lines, blurring the city into something softer, less defined. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the storm and the distant sound of traffic muted by water.
They sat together, close but not touching.
The space between them felt deliberate—not empty, not tense. Chosen.
Lara stared at her hands for a long time before she spoke.
"He used guilt like a weapon," she said quietly.
Her voice sounded distant, unfamiliar even to herself—as if it belonged to a version of her she'd buried carefully.
Jaden didn't move.
Didn't interrupt.
Didn't rush her.
She swallowed hard.
"Every time I tried to pull away," she continued, "he made it about what he'd given up. How much he'd sacrificed. How hard things were for him."
Her fingers curled into her palms, nails pressing into skin.
"If I wanted space, I was selfish. If I needed air, I was cruel. If I cried, I was manipulative."
Her throat tightened.
"He always made it sound logical," she said. "Reasonable. Like I was the problem for reacting."
She paused.
"He'd apologize afterward," she added softly. "Always afterward."
Jaden's expression didn't change—but something sharpened behind his eyes. Not anger. Not judgment.
Recognition.
"He told me I owed him," Lara whispered. "For staying. For not giving up. For loving him when he was 'trying.'"
The tears came without warning—hot, sudden, unstoppable. She pressed her hand to her mouth as her breath fractured, years of swallowed fear breaking free all at once.
"I thought if I just stayed calm enough, quiet enough, he wouldn't get upset," she said, voice shaking. "I learned how to disappear in front of him."
Jaden leaned forward slightly. Not touching. Just closer.
"You don't owe survival to anyone," he said evenly.
There was no hesitation in his voice.
No softness that diluted the truth.
Just certainty.
It unraveled her.
"I didn't think I'd ever feel normal again," Lara admitted. "I thought something in me had broken permanently. That this—" she gestured vaguely "—was just who I was ..now."
"And now?" Jaden asked quietly.
"Now I do," she said. "And that scares me."
"Why?"
"Because peace feels temporary," she whispered. "Because every good day makes me wait for the moment it gets taken away."
She hesitated, chest tight.
"I'm scared of you becoming another thing I have to escape."
The words hung between them—raw, unguarded.
Jaden didn't flinch.
Didn't promise what he couldn't control.
"I won't trap you," he said. "Even if it costs me."
Something inside her cracked open—not with romance, but with relief.
Because it wasn't ownership.
It was permission.
She didn't lean into him.
That mattered.
She chose him—consciously, carefully.
And that choice felt different.
Later that night, alone in bed, Lara stared at the ceiling and listened to the quiet. Her phone rested untouched on the nightstand. No buzzing. No sudden spikes of fear.
Her mind wandered anyway.
To the moments she'd normalized. To the times she'd minimized pain because it wasn't constant. To how she'd learned to blame herself for someone else's violence.
She thought about the woman she'd been on that plane—the one who snapped her SIM card in half and smiled at the sky.
That woman hadn't run.
She had chosen forward.
The past could whisper all it wanted.
It no longer held the microphone.
Lara turned onto her side, breathing slow and steady.
She wasn't healed.
Not completely.
But she was no longer standing still.
And that was how reclamation truly failed.