Chapter 5 – Her Answers
The journal lay open across her knees, its spine pressing into her skin like a demand. The lamp’s light pooled over the page, and the pen felt heavier than it should.
She stared at the first prompt.
What are your core values?
Her chest tightened. She had never been asked that before. Not really. Her father had always told her what they should be.
The nib pressed to the paper, and the words dragged out of her like splinters:
The values I grew up with:
Silence.
Obedience.
Duty.
Her father’s voice wrapped around each one, clipped, sharp, inescapable. Those had been the rules of her life, the price of safety. Don’t speak. Don’t question. Do what you’re told. The ink on the page looked like iron bars.
She stared at them until her chest hurt, then drew a hard line beneath. A cut. A refusal.
Her hand shook as she wrote the next.
The values I choose are:
Honesty.
Kindness.
Respect.
The words looked small. Bare. Too simple. She hovered over them, ashamed of how thin they seemed against the heavy rules above. Did they need more explanation?
But they were all she had. Fragile as they were, they felt like hers. For once, the page reflected something that belonged to her alone.
Her gaze slipped back to the next line.
Why are you here?
Why am I here?
Her gaze slipped back to the next line.
Why are you here?
Why am I here?
I wanted freedom. I left my father because I needed air I could call my own—away from his rules: silence, obedience, duty. Every choice belonged to him. Leaving was the only way I could take a breath that felt mine.
But escaping didn’t save me.
My apartment wasn’t a home—just walls that kept me breathing. Days blurred; nights went hollow. I was free, but nothing held me steady. I was surviving, and I am tired of surviving.
I want more. I need more.
Structure. Order. Something strong enough to hold me when I can’t hold myself.
The weekend at the cabin showed me something I hadn’t dared to imagine: silence that steadies, not smothers.
It was the first time silence didn’t feel like punishment or absence or judgement—it felt like safety. Like air I could finally breathe.
You didn’t push. You didn’t demand. You set the rhythm, slow and steady, and I learned to follow.
When my thoughts ran wild, you pulled me back with a single word, or sometimes with a hand. When I faltered, you didn’t scold—you waited, patient, until I tried again.
It was strange and terrifying to be seen like that—every hesitation noticed, every weakness exposed—but you never used it against me. You steadied me. You showed me control can hold, not crush.
I read the book you gave me. I read your notes in the margins: framework holds freedom.
I want that. Your framework. Your structure. Your guidance. I want rules that are chosen, not forced. I want limits that make room for the rest of me.
You’ve already begun to give me that. With you, I feel seen. I can be myself.
Even though it terrifies me, I choose this.
Her gaze dropped to the next line.
What is your greatest fear?
Her hand moved almost without thinking:
That I’ll never be enough.
The words stared back at her, stark and pitiless. Heat pushed at her eyes. She gripped the pen tighter, then dragged a hard line through the sentence until it was gone.
She tried again.
That I’ll always be alone.
Another sharp line struck it out.
The page was scarred now, scratched with half-confessions. The truth was there, but she couldn’t let it live in ink—not yet. Her chest constricted, breath catching shallow in her throat.
With a sudden snap, she shut the journal, pressing her palm hard against the cover as if she could trap the words inside. Her eyes squeezed shut. The quiet rushed in — refrigerator hum, the tick of pipes, her pulse pounding louder than both.
For a moment she almost stayed there, clinging to silence, pretending the question hadn’t been asked.
But the weight of the leather under her hand refused to let her go. Slowly, reluctantly, she opened the book again. Her fingers trembled as she smoothed the crumpled edge of the page, then flipped past the scars, forcing herself forward.
The next prompt waited, clean and untouched.
What do you want your sanctuary to be?
Her breath steadied. Slowly, she began to write.
I’ve never had a sanctuary. I’ve had my own bedroom and my own apartment – but neither have felt like a sanctuary. I don’t really know where to begin- what a sanctuary means. It sounds so fancy.
Somewhere safe. Somewhere mine.
Her hand hovered, then kept moving.
Colour on the walls. Pink, maybe—soft, warm, not heavy like my father’s house. Some wall art – butterflies and flowers sounded fun. A pretty bedspread that feels like mine, not borrowed. White silky Curtains that catch the morning light. A chair in the corner where I can sit read. Some throw pillows. A soft coloured lamp. A little clock.
Her writing grew quicker, lighter, as if energy were rising through her hand. The more she let herself imagine, the less the room around her felt empty.
She could almost see it—soft walls, a quilt in shades she chose, light spilling over a desk that held not just this journal but maybe flowers, maybe a photo she wasn’t ashamed to keep in view.
Her chest lifted.
For the first time tonight, the weight eased. The act of naming these things—small, ordinary things—felt strange, almost defiant.
To want was a kind of rebellion.
To imagine them real was hope.
She paused, her eyes drifting back to the earlier page, the one still waiting: What is your greatest fear?
The strike-through lines cut across it like wounds. She thought of adding more, finishing it, but the pen stilled. Not tonight. Exhaustion had set in. Her eyes felt heavy. Her mind empty.
The journal slipped from her lap to the blanket beside her, still open, the half-answers exposed in the lamplight.
Lily curled onto her side, exhaustion pulling at her bones. Her eyes fell shut, heavy, her mind still circling the words she had written—and the ones she hadn’t.
Sleep tugged at her, uneven but insistent. As she settled into a deeper sleep, the minutes slid by in silence.
The door eased open on a whisper of hinges. Blake’s shadow stretched across the room.
He paused in the doorway, taking in the sight: her body curled small amongst the covers, the light still burning, the journal lying open beside her like an unfinished confession.
The blanket had slipped low across her hip, one arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting near the open journal.
There was a softness to her face in sleep he rarely saw awake—peaceful, unguarded, as though the weight she carried in daylight had eased for just a moment.
He let himself stand there, silent, watching. Not intruding. Simply taking in the stillness she had found, fragile though it was. Yet something in him ached at the sight of her lying there.
A longing, yes—but not only for her body. For the trust beginning to take root. For the fragile courage that had carried her this far. And for the hope of a day when she might not only surrender her words, but all of herself—fully, without fear.
He wanted her whole, unguarded, to unlock every thought and truth she still tried to hide away. There was no rush. He could wait.
Quietly, he stepped closer. His steps measured across the floor so as not to wake her. As he reached her, he first lifted the journal from the bed with careful hands. He held it in his palms, noticing the scribble of handwriting on the open pages. But he closed it without reading, and set it on the bedside table. For now, her words were hers alone.
He drew the blanket higher, tucking it around her shoulders, his hand resting there just long enough to steady her breathing. Then he reached for the lamp, dimmed the room into shadow, and let the silence hold her.
He strode slowly back across the room, a small glance back over his shoulder one last time to check on her before he stepped out into the hall. He closed the door softly behind him, leaving night to absorb her in her new sanctuary—safe, peaceful, and waiting for morning.