The days afterward were strange—quiet, but not yet peaceful. I slept in short bursts, waking from nightmares drenched in sweat, my heart racing as if I were still on the kitchen floor. Every loud sound made me flinch. Every creak of a door sent panic through my chest. But there was something new too, something I didn’t fully trust at first: safety.
When I was discharged, Alex brought me to his house. It wasn’t large or luxurious, but it was clean and quiet in a way that felt unreal. No yelling. No footsteps that meant danger. No rules disguised as love. Just the hum of a refrigerator, the tick of a clock, and the steady presence of someone who never questioned my right to exist. The first nights I slept with the light on because darkness still felt like a trap. I curled on my side with my arms around my stomach, protecting my baby even in dreams, and woke at every small sound. Alex never rushed me. He never said, You’re safe now, stop being afraid. He understood that healing isn’t a straight line—it’s a slow reclaiming of space inside your body and mind.