Until the Light Returns

Chapter 2: Fragile Ground

The early morning sun crept across the bedroom, casting long golden lines through the blinds. Marlena sat on the edge of the bed, still in the same clothes she wore the night before. Her bare feet pressed into the soft rug, but she felt none of its warmth.

Behind her, John stirred again.

She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until he whispered, "Doc...?"

"I didn't want to wake you," she said quietly.

"You didn't," he replied, rising on one elbow. "But I don't have to be asleep to know when you're hurting."

Marlena smiled faintly at the ceiling. "That's what forty years of loving someone will get you."

He moved beside her, sliding his hand gently over hers. "You want to talk before I make coffee? Or after?"

She hesitated. "I think I need... to start talking. Somewhere. Or else I won't stop breaking."

John kissed her knuckles. "Okay, Doc. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

⸻

Later that day, she made the call.

Therapy had always been a refuge, a profession she considered sacred. But stepping into the role of patient again—especially after all these years—was humbling. Necessary, though. She knew trauma didn't simply fade because she willed it to.

She chose someone she trusted. Someone who knew the clinical world, but also the human one.

Dr. Rebecca Tolan welcomed her warmly at the discreet private office just outside of town.

"I'm honored to hold this space for you, Marlena," she said as they sat across from each other. "No titles here. Just truth."

Marlena felt herself exhale slightly. It was a small relief, but it mattered.

"I've been having nightmares," she said. "Vivid. Repetitive. Same setting. Megan's voice. Sometimes Stefano's."

Rebecca nodded, jotting a small note. "Recurring nightmares are a common symptom of post-traumatic stress. They're your brain's way of trying to make sense of something senseless."

"It doesn't feel like understanding," Marlena whispered. "It feels like punishment."

"That's part of the shame loop trauma puts us in. But what happened to you wasn't your fault."

Marlena stared at her hands. "I know that logically. But... emotionally... I still feel like I should've been stronger."

"You survived," Rebecca said gently. "That's the greatest strength of all."

⸻

That night, she told John about the session.

"She wants me to write," she said as they sat by the fire. "About what happened. Even the things I don't want to say out loud."

John nodded, always calm, always solid. "If it helps, Doc, I'll sit with you while you write. Or I'll read it when you're ready. Or I won't. Whatever you need."

Marlena's throat tightened. "How are you so good to me?"

"Because I love you," he said simply. "Because you've always been there for me, even when I didn't deserve it."

"You always deserved it."

"Then so do you."

⸻

The following week, the triggers came harder.

A news report about a hostage situation. A woman with Megan's hair in the grocery store. A door that creaked the wrong way. Marlena found herself in the bathroom, crouched against the wall, struggling to breathe.

John found her there, his eyes wide with concern but not panic.

"It's okay," he said softly, kneeling down. "You're safe. You're here with me."

"I hate this," she choked out. "I hate feeling like I'm losing my mind."

"You're not," he said, pulling her close. "You're processing something impossible. I'd be worried if you weren't reacting at all."

She sobbed into his shoulder, and he held her like he always had—like she was the most precious thing in the world.

⸻

Over time, she started to name the feelings.

Terror. Guilt. Anger. Sadness. She wrote them in a notebook Rebecca had given her. And beside each one, she wrote something that reminded her of her strength: holding Belle for the first time. Watching John walk again after his paralysis. Fighting to get out of Megan's clutches. Finding her way back from death.

Some days she could barely write a sentence. Other days, the words poured out in a flood.

And every night, without fail, John read beside her in bed, a hand always within reach.

⸻

One night, after a particularly brutal nightmare, Marlena woke up shaking. Her shirt was damp with sweat, and her throat was raw from crying out.

John didn't speak. He simply wrapped her in the blanket and led her to the couch. Lit a candle. Made tea. Held her as she cried.

When the tears slowed, he spoke quietly.

"You once told me," he said, "that healing isn't a straight line. That some days you'll feel like you're drowning again. But those days don't erase the ones where you swam."

Marlena let out a ragged breath. "You listen to me more than I listen to myself."

"I always have," he said, smiling softly. "You're my anchor, Doc. Always."

"I'm trying to be strong for you," she whispered.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead. "You don't have to be strong for me. Just be honest with me. That's all I've ever needed."