The fucking stairs groaned under my weight like they were trying to tell me secrets about everyone who'd descended before me. Each step down into The Sanctuary carried the weight of the day's exhaustion, my shoulders rolling forward as Carne’s gravely voice in “Bette Davis Eyes" bled through the walls.

I pushed through the door to find the usual beautiful chaos. Ezra practically launched themselves from the beanbag chair, blue hair catching the crimson light like some kind of punk rock halo. Mom! Holy shit, you look like you've been wrestling demons all day.

Just the usual corporate motherfuckers trying to act like my existence is up for debate, I said, letting the door slam behind me with satisfying finality.

Miguel was already pouring before I hit the barstool, that sultry-child voice of his cutting through the music. Rough one, Mom? Got something that'll either fix it or make you forget it exists.

The amber liquid caught the light as he slid it across—Maker's Mark by the smell of it. I took a grateful sip, letting the burn chase away the day's bullshit. Della's voice carried from the kitchen where something sizzled violently. Miguel, stop giving Mom the good shit without charging her properly! We got bills, baby!

My wife doesn't pay for therapy, and that's what this is, Miguel shot back, wiping down the bar with practiced efficiency.

Hey , Della, I pay my tabs, I bellowed, I know Im only two weeks in at work, give me time, goddammit.

The place was fuller than usual for a Thursday. Sage sat in the corner, creating something intricate on a napkin—looked like a phoenix rising from geometric patterns. Bubba occupied his usual spot by the pool table, that stoic presence somehow both immovable and comforting. Dani floated between conversations, scarves trailing like remnants of better dreams. River was fresh off shift, scrubs still carrying the antiseptic smell of the hospital, sitting close enough to the door to bolt if needed but far enough in to belong.

Keira appeared at my elbow, her presence warming the space between us without touching. You made it. Was starting to wonder if those assholes at work had finally pushed you over the edge.

Nah, they are actually pretty accepting. One of the HR girls told me wear that pretty green dress I wore last week. There are worse places to work, I promise you.

The music shifted to Tesla’s “Love Song," and I watched Bubba's shoulders tense slightly. Something about that song always hit him sideways. Dani noticed too, drifting over with that gentle-fierce energy they carried like armor made of silk.

You okay, Bubba? You got that thousand-yard stare going, Dani said, crystals catching the light as they settled nearby.

Bubba's laugh was dry as August dirt. Just thinking about ghosts that need to stay buried. Y'all ever have one of those exes that makes you grateful for therapy and restraining orders?

The question hung in the air like smoke from Della's kitchen. Sage looked up from their napkin art, and something passed between the three of them—recognition, maybe. The kind that comes from surviving similar wars.

Motherfucker, you're preaching to the choir, Sage said, their usually quiet voice carrying unexpected weight. Some people exist just to teach you what toxic looks like in human form.

River leaned forward, curiosity overcoming their usual reserve. Sounds like there's stories here.

Stories? Dani laughed, but it had edges. Try fucking nightmares dressed up as relationships.

Great White’s “Once Bitten, Twice Why," started playing, and the irony was thick enough to choke on. Miguel poured another round without being asked, that sixth sense bartenders develop for when shit's about to get real.

Bubba took a long pull from his beer before speaking. Calen. That was his name. Built like a goddamn grizzly bear and had the emotional range of one too—either hibernating or mauling something.

The way he said the name, like spitting out something rotten, made my chest tight. I'd heard pieces of this before, but never the full story. Della emerged from the kitchen, carrying plates of her famous loaded potato skins, the smell cutting through the basement's usual mix of old wood and determination.

That the asshole who tried to parent you instead of partner with you? Della asked, setting food down with the kind of force that suggested she'd rather be setting down fists.

Parent is generous, Bubba said. More like prison warden with daddy dommy bottom issues. Fifty-three years old, and that motherfucker had me feeling like I was sixteen again, getting lectured about leaving dishes in the sink while he threw shit at walls.

Sage's hand had stopped moving on their napkin. The anger followed by lectures. Fuck, that's familiar. Sonia didn't throw things, but she had this way of making you feel like dirt with just her tone. Like you were constantly failing some test you didn't know you were taking.

Sonia? River asked softly.

My ex. Treated relationships like corporate mergers where she was always the senior partner. Sage's laugh was bitter as black coffee. Everything was about her image, her connections, her narrative. I spent two years feeling like a supporting character in her personal TED talk.

Cinderella’s “Don’t Know What You Got," started up, and Miguel turned it down slightly, recognizing the shift in energy. Dani was playing with their scarves, wrapping and unwrapping them around their fingers.

At least yours kept it private, Dani said. Daisy built our entire relationship into her fucking brand. Trans couple, she called us. Posted every moment, every date, every fight—edited for maximum engagement, of course.

The influencer? Keira asked, and I felt her hand brush mine on the bar—subtle support.

The pathological liar, more like, Dani corrected. Everything was performance. The brand deals she bragged about? Fake. The events? Stock photos. Her face? So fucking filtered and AI-generated she looked like a different person in every photo. I just wanted to see HER, you know? Natural, real, no digital surgery. But she couldn't post a single image without running it through twenty apps first. The love? Content strategy. I was dating a hologram that occasionally became solid enough to gaslight me. She lied more times than I can count.

The room had gone quiet except for the music and Della's aggressive chopping in the kitchen. Even Ezra had stopped bouncing in their beanbag. This was the kind of silence that happened when truth got too raw for comfort but too important to interrupt.

How'd you get out? River asked, and there was something in their voice—recognition, maybe, or preparation.

Bubba straightened, and I saw the man who'd survived growing up Black and gay in South Georgia in the '70s. Took his ass trying to control my money for me to finally see it. When a grown man starts demanding receipts for grocery shopping and timing your phone calls with friends, that ain't love. That's ownership.

The money thing, Sage nodded. Sonia used connections like currency. Suddenly I couldn't get invited to industry events unless I was her plus-one. My professional network became her hostage situation.

Well shit, Miguel muttered, refilling glasses with the kind of precision that suggested he was holding back his own memories.

What broke it for me, Dani said, was finding her real apartment. Not the staged one she showed on camera, but where she actually lived. Bare walls, old furniture, just her and a laptop and this crushing loneliness she'd built a fortress around. The saddest fucking thing was realizing she'd rather maintain the lie than let anyone see her real self. She was just an absolute lunatic.

Red RIder’s “Lunatic Fringe" filled the space, and I caught myself tearing up—not for them, but for Gizmo. This was one of our songs in the car.

The beautiful part, Bubba continued, is where they ended up. Last I heard through the grapevine, Calen can't hold a job. Turns out when you spend all your energy controlling others, you got nothing left for your own shit. Man's living in a charity basement, fifty-eight years old and finally learning what consequences taste like.

Sonia's stuck in middle management hell, Sage added with satisfaction. All that superiority complex, and she's pushing papers for people half her age who don't give a fuck about her name-dropping.

Daisy lost her influence when people figured out the fraud, Dani said. Zero engagement, zero sponsors, zero ability to function without the fake persona. Living off charity but completely alone because she burned every real bridge for content.

Good fucking riddance, Della called from the kitchen. Those assholes got what they deserved—empty lives to match their empty souls.

River shifted on their stool. How long did it take? To heal from that kind of damage?

The question hung heavy. Bubba considered his beer like it held answers. Two years of therapy, six months of learning to trust my own judgment again, and a lifetime membership to the 'fuck that noise' club.

Three years, Sage said quietly. Three years to stop measuring my worth by someone else's arbitrary standards.

Still working on it, Dani admitted. But every day I choose authenticity over performance is a victory.

Keira squeezed my hand, and I thought about all the ways we rebuild ourselves after someone tries to demolish us. The bar held these stories like a sanctuary should—with reverence and rage in equal measure.

You know what the fucked up part is? I said, surprising myself by speaking. Those assholes probably think they were the victims. Calen probably tells people Bubba was too sensitive, or that he was a constant disappointment or something. Sonia probably says Sage couldn't handle a strong independent woman. Daisy probably posts about how Dani couldn't support her dreams.

Let ‘em, Bubba said firmly. Let them tell whatever story helps them sleep. We know the truth. We survived their truth.

River looked around the room with something like wonder. This is why we need places like this. To remember we're not alone in surviving the unthinkable.

Shit, honey, Ezra called from their beanbag, That's why we call this home.

Della emerged again with another round of food—wings this time, the smell making my stomach remember I'd skipped lunch. Every one of you magnificent bastards learned the hard way that toxic ain't love. That control ain't care. That image ain't intimacy.

And that healing, Keira added, her voice carrying that strength I fell in love with, healing happens in community. In spaces where truth matters more than performance.

The night continued, stories flowing like the drinks Miguel kept pouring. Each tale of survival was met with nods of recognition, occasional "fuck that's" of solidarity, and the kind of laughter that comes from recognizing absurdity in hindsight.

As Def Leppard's "Photograph" played, I thought about Gizmo again—another Leppard song we'd shared, another memory that ached like a missing tooth. But surrounded by chosen family who'd all survived their own hells, the ache felt bearable.

The Sanctuary held us all—the broken, the healing, the healed enough to help others. Every scarred soul in this basement had earned their place through survival, through refusing to let toxic love define their capacity for real connection.

You know what I love about this place? River said suddenly, probably three drinks in and looser than usual. Nobody here pretends damage didn't happen. We wear our scars like fucking medals.

Because they are medals, Bubba said simply. Every one represents a battle we won by walking away.

The truth of it settled over us like Della's cooking smoke—pervasive, slightly acrid, but somehow exactly right for the space. We were all survivors here, each carrying stories of people who'd tried to diminish us, control us, erase us into versions of ourselves that served their needs.

But we'd refused. We'd walked through fire and come out the other side, not unburned but unbroken. And now we sat in this crimson-painted basement, sharing war stories and potato skins, building something better from the ashes of what tried to destroy us.

That's what The Sanctuary really was—not just a bar, but a resurrection ground. A place where the ghosts of toxic love could be exorcised through truth-telling, where healing happened in the space between "me too" and "never again."

As the night wound down and the playlist cycled through its familiar rotations, I felt the weight of the day lifting. Not gone, never completely gone, but transformed into something shareable, bearable in the company of others who understood that sometimes the greatest act of self-love is saying "fuck this" and walking away.

Tomorrow would bring new battles, new microaggressions, new attempts to diminish our existence. But tonight, in this basement sanctuary, surrounded by survivors and truth-tellers, we were exactly who we needed to be—scarred, healing, and absolutely fucking unbreakable.

"The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive." - John Green

But Green never said forgiveness meant forgetting, or that it meant the forgiven deserved it. Sometimes forgiveness is just releasing the poison they left in your veins, choosing your own healing over their continued hold. The labyrinth of suffering has many exits, and sometimes the best one is marked "No Contact" in neon letters, bright as the truth you finally learned to tell.