I told myself I wouldn't see him again.
After that second time, after bleeding again, after feeling the sharp sting of being dismissed once the sex was done—I promised myself I was done.
But promises are easy to make when you're alone in your room, still processing the hurt. They're harder to keep when he texts you three days later saying he misses you.
Mr. Z: I've been thinking about you. How are you feeling?
How was I feeling? Like my body was a battleground. Like I was carrying a secret so heavy it was crushing me from the inside out.
Me: Better.
Mr. Z: Good. I was worried about you.
Mr. Z: I want to see you again. Properly this time.
Properly. As if the other times had been improper accidents, flukes that didn't count.
Mr. Z: Let me take you on a night drive. Just us. No pressure.
No pressure. The words almost made me laugh. Everything about this—about us—was pressure. The weight of what happened. The weight of my confusion. The weight of wanting him despite knowing I shouldn't.
But I said yes anyway.
The night drive was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
He picked me up after dark, music playing softly through the speakers—his favorite songs, the ones he said reminded him of me. We drove through quiet streets, windows down, warm air rushing past.
He held my hand across the console. Traced circles on my palm with his thumb.
"I really do like you, you know," he said, eyes on the road. "You're different from other girls."
There it was again. That line. The one designed to make me feel special, chosen.
And God help me, it worked.
"I like you too," I said.
He smiled. "I know you do."
We parked somewhere overlooking the city lights. He turned to me, cupped my face in his hands.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered before kissing me.
And in that moment, I believed we could be something. Believed that maybe all the pain had been leading to this—a real connection, a real relationship.
"Come here," he said, adjusting his seat back.
We made out in his car like teenagers. His hands roamed, confident now in their familiarity with my body. And I let them because I wanted to feel close to him. Wanted to chase that feeling of being wanted.
"Let's make a video," he said suddenly, pulling out his phone.
"A video?"
"Yeah. Just us. Something to remember this by."
He started recording—us kissing, smiling at the camera, his arm around me pulling me close. He looked at the camera and said, "This is my baby."
My baby.
The words sent warmth flooding through me. He'd never called me that before. Never claimed me like that.
We made several videos that night. In each one, we looked happy. Looked like a couple. Looked like people who were falling for each other.
I saved every single one.
"I want you again," he said later, his voice low and urgent.
My stomach tightened. "I don't know..."
"It'll be different this time. I promise. We'll go slow. You'll actually enjoy it."
"I'm still scared," I admitted. "It hurt so much the last times."
"That's because you were tense. Because you were scared. But if you relax, if you trust me, it can feel good. I promise."
Trust him. After everything, he was asking me to trust him.
And because I desperately wanted to believe that sex could be something other than pain and blood—because I wanted to prove to myself that I could reclaim this, that I could choose it on my terms—I agreed.
"Okay," I whispered. "But slow."
"Of course. Slow."
We went back to his place. This time I told myself I was ready. Told myself I was in control. Told myself I wanted this.
We got into his bed. He kissed me gently at first, taking his time. I tried to relax, tried to let my body soften.
"That's it," he murmured. "Just breathe."
When he entered me, I tensed immediately. The pain was there again—not as sharp as the first time, but present. Persistent.
"Relax," he said. "It's just a sweet pain. You'll get used to it."
Sweet pain.
I tried to breathe through it as he moved. Tried to find something pleasurable in the sensation. My body made sounds—moans that he interpreted as pleasure.
But they weren't. They were pain dressed up as something else. My body's way of coping with what was happening to it.
"You like that?" he asked.
"It hurts," I said honestly.
He slowed but didn't stop. "It always hurts a little at first. You'll start to enjoy it. Just give it time."
But I didn't enjoy it. Not even a little. Every thrust was a reminder of that first night, of the blood, of the tearing. My brain kept trying to disassociate, to float away from what my body was experiencing.
"I don't like this," I finally said. "Please stop."
He stopped immediately and pulled out.
"Okay," he said, no trace of anger in his voice. "That's okay. We can stop."
He held me afterward, stroked my hair, told me I did well. Told me it would get easier.
And I laid there thinking: When does it get easier? When does my body stop associating this with violence?
Over the next few weeks, we fell into a pattern.
He'd text me sweet messages. Send me the videos we'd made. Tell me about his day, his dreams. Ask about what I've been up to.
We talked about the future in vague, hopeful terms. About places we'd go together. Things we'd do. He even asked me once, casually, "Would you be my girlfriend if I asked you properly?"
My heart leaped. "What do you mean 'if'?"
"I mean... I want to ask you properly. Not just like this. When the time is right."
"And when will that be?"
"Soon," he said, smiling that smile that made me forget all my doubts. "Soon."
I held onto that word like a lifeline. Soon.
Time to go back came. I had to go back to school.
The night before I left, we saw each other one last time.
"I'm going to miss you," he said, pulling me close.
"I'll miss you too."
"We'll talk every day though, right? And you'll come visit?"
"Of course."
He kissed me deeply, desperately, like he was trying to memorize the feeling.
"I can't wait to see you again," he whispered against my lips.
And I believed him.
We did talk every day. At first.
Long voice notes. Video calls where we'd just look at each other and smile. Him sending me pictures of the best outfit he should pick to wear. Me sending him cute selfies I make when I'm bored.
It felt like we were building something real.
But slowly, the communication started to shift.
His responses got slower. His voice notes got shorter. The video calls became less frequent.
When I'd ask when I could see him again, he'd say "soon" or "I'm just really busy right now with stuffs."
And a pit started growing in my stomach. The same pit that had been there since that first night, the one I'd been trying to fill with his attention and sweet words.
The pit that knew something was wrong.
Finally, after two weeks of increasingly distant communication, I couldn't take it anymore.
I needed clarity. Needed to know what we were doing. Needed to know if all of this—the pain, the bleeding, the videos, the promises—meant something.
Me: Hey, can we talk? Like really talk?
Mr. Z: Sure. What's up?
Me: I just need to know where we stand. What are we doing here?
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Mr. Z: What do you mean?
Me: I mean... are we together? Are we working toward something? Because I need to know what this is.
The dots took longer this time.
Mr. Z: I think we should just be friends. At least for now.
My stomach dropped.
Mr. Z: I have a lot on my plate with the business I'm trying to build and everything. And there's the whole thing with my cousin... if Mr. T found out, he'd feel some type of way. It's complicated.
Complicated. His cousin was suddenly an issue now. The same cousin who "didn't matter" when he was kissing me. The same cousin who he'd never mentioned as a concern through all of this.
Mr. Z: I do care about you though. We can still be casual. Still hang out when you're around.
Casual.
After everything. After taking my virginity, painfully, irreversibly. After the second time. The third time. After the videos and the "my baby" and the promises of asking me to be his girlfriend "properly."
After all of it, he wanted casual.
My hands shook as I typed my response.
Me: I understand, and thanks for being honest. I get your situation, but I'm not in a place to do casual or stay emotionally involved without intention. I also need to say this for my own peace, it wasn't fair for things to go that far knowing the consequences and knowing you couldn't stand in it fully. So for my own wellbeing, I'm just going to take a step back and keep my distance. I'm hurt, but yea it's all good.
I read it three times before sending it. Made sure my tone was calm, measured. Didn't want him to see how thoroughly he had destroyed me.
Mr. Z: I hear you, and I respect how you feel. I'm sorry for the hurt this caused that wasn't my intention thought you understood but I respect that. I understand your decision to take a step back, and I'll respect the space you need...
Thought you understood.
Those three words haunted me.
Understood what? That he was using me? That the sweet words and videos meant nothing? That I was just a body to practice on until he figured out what he really wanted?
I didn't respond.
I turned off my phone, laid in my bed, and let the grief wash over me.