I went home two days later.
My apartment was ready, the deep house cleaning and fixing was done, and my friend was eager to get back to her own space. I packed my bag slowly, moving carefully because sudden movements still made the ache between my legs flare up.
Mr. Z helped carry our bags to the car. He was quieter than usual, almost sheepish.
"Text me when you get home safe," he said.
I nodded.
"And... I'm really sorry again. About everything."
"It's okay," I heard myself say. "It was an accident."
The word tasted like ash in my mouth, but I said it anyway. Because if it wasn't an accident—if it was something else—then I'd have to face what that meant. And I wasn't ready.
When I got home, I did what any confused, hurting person does: I tried to pretend everything was normal.
I unpacked. Did laundry. Caught up on the TV show I'd been watching. Tried not to think about the dull ache that followed me from room to room, a constant reminder of what my body had been through.
My phone buzzed.
Mr. Z: You home safe?
I stared at the message for a long moment. Part of me wanted to ignore it, to create distance, to give myself space to process what had happened.
But another part of me—the part that had spent two nights in his arms while he comforted me ,wanted to respond.
Me: Yeah, I'm good.
Mr. Z: How are you feeling?
How was I feeling? Like my body didn't belong to me anymore. Like I'd lost something I could never get back. Like I was walking around in a fog, trying to make sense of what happened while my brain kept offering me different versions of the story.
Me: Still a bit sore. But I'll be fine.
Mr. Z: I'm sorry. I wish I could take it back.
And there it was again—that tenderness, that care. The part of him that made me think maybe he really did regret it. Maybe he really was a good guy who made a terrible mistake.
Me: It's okay. I just need time to process everything.
Mr. Z: Take all the time you need. I'm here if you want to talk.
I put my phone down and cried.
I didn't respond for a few days. I needed the space. Needed to try to understand what I was feeling.
But he kept texting. Not pushy, just... present. Checking in. Asking how I was. Sharing little things about his day. Making me laugh with memes and jokes.
And slowly, against my better judgment, I started responding more.
We fell into a rhythm. Daily texts. Voice notes. Him telling me about his new business idea that he was setting up, his dreams, his plans. Me telling him about my life in general.
It felt normal. Almost like we were friends. Like what happened that night was just a bump in the road, something we'd moved past.
I told myself I was fine. Told myself I was handling it.
But I was still bleeding. Not as heavily as those first two days, but enough to need pads. Enough to know something wasn't right.
And I still couldn't bring myself to seek medical help. Couldn't bring myself to tell anyone what happened. Because telling someone would make it real. Would force me to confront what I'd been avoiding.
Three weeks after that night, he asked if we could see each other again.
Mr. Z: I miss you. Can we meet up?
Every rational part of my brain screamed no. Screamed that I needed to stay away, that seeing him would only confuse me more.
But I said yes.
Because I missed him too. Because despite everything, I wanted to see him. Wanted to be in his presence again. Wanted to recapture that feeling of being desired, being special.
Wanted to prove to myself that what happened was really just an accident, and that we could move past it.
We met at a quiet spot, away from prying eyes. When I saw him, my heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did. He smiled at me, that same smile that had pulled me in from the beginning.
"Hey," he said, pulling me into a hug.
I melted into it, hating myself a little for how good it felt.
We talked. Walked around. He bought me food I barely touched because my stomach was in knots. He told me I looked beautiful. Told me he'd been thinking about me constantly.
"I really like you," he said, looking directly into my eyes. "I know things got complicated, but... I like you. A lot."
Those words. Those three little words that I'd been desperate to hear.
"I like you too," I whispered.
We ended up back at his place. I told myself we'd just talk. Just spend time together. Nothing more.
But he started kissing me. And I kissed him back because I wanted to feel something other than the confusion and pain that had been my constant companions for three weeks.
His hands moved over my body, familiar now in a way they hadn't been that first night.
"I want you," he murmured against my neck.
"I'm still healing," I said, pulling back. "Down there. It still hurts sometimes."
"It's okay," he said. "We'll be gentle. I promise it won't hurt like last time."
And because I was desperate to prove that the first time was an aberration—that sex could be different, better, consensual—I said yes.
It wasn't better.
It hurt. Not as violently as the first time, but it hurt. A sharp, tearing pain that made me gasp and tense up.
"Relax," he said. "You're too tense. Just breathe."
I tried. God, I tried. Tried to relax my body, tried to breathe through the pain, tried to convince myself this was normal.
But then I felt the wetness. Felt the familiar slide of blood.
"I'm bleeding again," I said, my voice small.
He stopped. Pulled out. Looked down at the blood and his expression shifted—something between concern and annoyance.
"You said you were healing."
"I thought I was."
He got up, got tissues, cleaned himself off. Handed me some.
"Maybe you need to see a doctor," he said, no longer meeting my eyes.
I cleaned myself up in his bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes looked hollow. Lost.
What am I doing? I thought. Why did I come back here?
But I already knew the answer.
Because I was trying to rewrite what happened. Trying to make it okay. Trying to turn what happened into something consensual by choosing it the second time.
But my body knew the truth. It was screaming it at me in blood and pain.
I just wasn't ready to listen.
When I came out of the bathroom, he was on his phone.
"You okay?" he asked, barely glancing up.
"Yeah," I lied.
"Cool. I have to meet up with someone soon, so..."
The dismissal was clear. I gathered my things, feeling smaller than I'd ever felt in my life.
"Text me when you get home," he said as I left.
I didn't respond.
On the taxi ride home, I finally let myself cry. Really cry. The kind of crying that shakes your whole body and makes the driver ask if you're okay.
"I'm fine," I said.
Another lie in a growing collection of them.
I wasn't fine. I hadn't been fine since that second night. And going back to him, letting him touch me again, had only made it worse.
Because now I couldn't blame it all on an accident. Now I'd chosen it. Chosen him. Chosen the pain.
And I had no idea how to live with that.