The first week after blocking him was the hardest.
I didn't block him immediately. That's the thing nobody tells you about walking away from someone who hurt you—you don't just wake up one day with perfect clarity and strength. You waffle. You second-guess. You keep the door cracked open just in case.
For three days, I just... existed in this limbo. I didn't text him. He didn't text me. Our conversation thread sat there like an open wound I couldn't stop looking at.
I'd scroll up sometimes, reading old messages. Looking at the videos we'd made. Trying to figure out where it went wrong. Trying to pinpoint the exact moment when "I really like you" became "let's be casual."
My friend noticed something was off.
"You've been quiet," she said one afternoon when we were supposed to be studying. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," I lied. "Just stressed about school work."
She didn't push. And I was grateful because if she had, I might have broken down completely. Might have told her everything—about Mr. Z, about the blood, about how my body still didn't feel like mine.
But I couldn't. Because saying it out loud would make it real. Would force me to confront what had actually happened.
On the fourth day, I caught myself checking if he'd viewed my WhatsApp status.
He had. Of course he had. He always did.
And that small green checkmark—that tiny indicator that he'd seen my life continuing without him—sent a pathetic thrill through me.
He's still watching. He still cares. Maybe he'll realize what he lost and come back.
That's when I knew I had a problem.
I was doing exactly what I'd promised myself I wouldn't do: holding onto hope. Performing my healing for an audience of one person who'd already decided I wasn't worth the effort.
That night, I stared at my phone for twenty minutes, my thumb hovering over his contact.
Block. Don't block. Block. Don't block.
The rational part of my brain knew what I needed to do. Knew that keeping him accessible—even just as a viewer of my status—was keeping me stuck.
But the irrational part, the part that was still bleeding emotionally from everything that happened, whispered: What if he changes his mind? What if he realizes he made a mistake? What if blocking him closes the door forever?
Finally, at 2 AM, I did it.
I blocked him on my most used platform. Removed him from viewing my stories, from sending me messages, from existing in my digital space.
My heart pounded like I'd done something dangerous.
I stared at my phone, half-expecting it to ring. Half-expecting him to somehow sense what I'd done and reach out through WhatsApp to ask why.
But nothing happened.
The world didn't end. He didn't notice. Or if he did, he didn't care enough to do anything about it.
I didn't block him on WhatsApp though. Not yet.
I told myself it was because I barely used WhatsApp anyway. Told myself it didn't matter because I'd turned off read receipts and status views.
But the truth was simpler and more pathetic: I wasn't ready to cut the last thread connecting us.
WhatsApp was my safety net. My way of keeping the option open to reach out if the pain got too unbearable. My way of leaving the door unlocked in case he ever decided to walk back through it.
The second week, the physical symptoms got worse.
I'd been ignoring them, pushing them to the back of my mind. But my body wouldn't let me forget.
The bleeding had mostly stopped, but there was a smell now. Faint at first, then stronger. A fishy, metallic odor that I only noticed when I held my pee too long.
I knew something was wrong. Knew I probably had an infection. Knew I should see a doctor.
But I couldn't. The thought of anyone examining me down there, of putting instruments inside me, of having to explain what happened—it made my chest tight with panic.
My body had already been violated once. I couldn't voluntarily let it happen again, even in a medical setting.
So I did what any scared, confused person does: I Googled my symptoms.
UTI. Bacterial vaginosis. Pelvic inflammatory disease. Each search result more terrifying than the last.
You need to see a doctor, the internet screamed at me.
But I closed the browser and pretended I hadn't seen it.
The third week, I started having dreams about him.
Not nightmares exactly. More like memory fragments replaying on loop.
The second night. The force of penetration. The blood. His face above me saying "it slipped."
I'd wake up sweating, my heart racing, my hands instinctively moving between my legs to make sure I wasn't bleeding again.
During the day, I'd be fine. Functional. I went to classes, laughed with friends.
But at night, alone in my bed, the memories would surface. And with them, the questions I'd been avoiding:
Was it assault?
Did I let it happen?
Why did I go back?
What's wrong with me?
My brain tried to organize what happened into neat categories. Tried to make it make sense.
Night One: Assault (probably). He overpowered me. I tried to stop him. That counted, right?
Night Two: Less clear. I'd agreed to see him. Agreed to try again. Was that consent even though I was still healing? Even though it hurt?
Night Three: Even murkier. I'd tried to relax into it. Tried to enjoy it. Did that make it consensual even though I hated every second?
The law would probably say yes to the first one and get fuzzy on the other two. But my body didn't care about legal definitions.
My body knew that all three times, it had been hurt. All three times, it had bled. All three times, it had screamed "stop" in the only language it knew—pain.
By the fourth week, I'd stopped crying about him.
Not because I was over it. But because I'd run out of tears. Because the grief had settled into something heavier and more permanent.
I started to get angry instead.
Angry at him for taking something I'd valued so deeply.
Angry at myself for going back.
Angry at my body for betraying me—for bleeding, for not healing, for not being able to enjoy sex like everyone said I would eventually.
Angry at the universe for letting this happen when I'd been so careful, so intentional about protecting my virginity.
The anger felt better than the sadness. Felt like it had teeth. Like I could do something with it.
But I had nowhere to put it. Couldn't tell my friends. Couldn't tell my family. Couldn't confront him because I had blocked him and promised myself I was done.
So the anger just sat in my chest, hot and heavy, burning a hole through everything good.
One month after I'd told him I was stepping back, I was scrolling through social media and saw his cousin—Mr. T—had posted something.
A group photo. Mr. Z was in it, smiling that same smile that had pulled me in. Arm around some girl I didn't recognize.
My stomach lurched.
He's moved on, I thought. Of course he has. While I'm over here still bleeding, still infected, still unable to sleep without seeing his face—he's out there smiling. Untouched. Unbothered.
That's when I realized: He didn't care. He'd never cared.
The videos, the sweet words, the "my baby," the promises of asking me to be his girlfriend properly—all of it had been a performance. A way to keep me accessible, compliant, available.
And when I'd asked for more, for clarity, for commitment—when I'd stopped being easy—he'd discarded me.
Simple as that.
I unblocked him on WhatsApp that night.
Not because I wanted to talk to him. But because I needed to see. Needed confirmation that he really was fine while I was falling apart.
His status was active. Recent. Photos of him at some event, looking happy and carefree.
I watched his status like it would give me answers. Like seeing his life would somehow make mine make sense.
It didn't.
It just made me feel pathetic. Made me realize I was still giving him power over me even though he'd made it clear I meant nothing.
I kept him unblocked though. Told myself it was fine. Told myself I was strong enough now to have him there without it affecting me.
Another lie in my growing collection.
By week five, I'd convinced myself I was healing.
I went out with friends. Posted pictures on social media. Smiled and laughed and pretended everything was normal.
And it almost worked.
Except for the moments when I'd catch myself checking if he'd viewed my status (he had). Or when I'd scroll through our old messages late at night. Or when I'd watch the videos we'd made and try to remember who that girl was—the one who looked so happy, so hopeful, so unbroken.
I'd look at her and think: You have no idea what's coming. You think he cares about you. You think this is going somewhere. You have no idea that in a few weeks, you'll be bleeding onto his sheets, crying in his bathroom, googling symptoms at 3 AM because you're too scared to see a doctor.
You have no idea that he's going to take everything you valued about yourself and leave you wondering who you are without it.
My teacher asked me if everything was okay.
"You seem distracted lately," she said. "Is everything alright with your thesis?"
"Yeah, just stressed," I said. "I'll get it together."
But I wasn't getting it together. I was falling apart in slow motion, one piece at a time.
My grades were slipping. My writing—the thing I'd always been able to count on—felt hollow.
Week six. A friend asked me about guys.
"Anyone special?" she asked, grinning. "You've been so secretive lately."
"No," I said quickly. "No one."
"Really? Because you seem different. Like something happened."
Something happened.
If only she knew.
"I'm fine," I said. "Just focusing on school."
She didn't look convinced but she let it go.
And I felt the weight of the secret press down harder. Felt the isolation of carrying this alone.
I wanted to tell someone. Wanted to say the words out loud: I was assaulted. I'm not okay. I need help.
But every time I tried to form the words, they got stuck in my throat.
Because saying it would make it real. Would make me a victim. Would mean accepting that what happened to me had a name, a weight, a permanence I wasn't ready to acknowledge.
By the end of week six, I made a decision.
I was going to confront him. Going to unblock him completely, reach out, tell him everything—what he did to my body, how I was still dealing with the aftermath, how he'd assaulted me whether he wanted to call it that or not.
I was going to make him know. Make him carry some of this weight I'd been bearing alone.
I drafted the message a hundred times in my notes app:
You assaulted me. You knew I was a virgin. You knew I wasn't ready. And you did it anyway. Three times. And now I'm dealing with trauma and a body that doesn't feel like mine anymore while you're out there living your life like nothing happened. You need to know what you did. You need to understand.
But I never sent it.
Because deep down, I knew it wouldn't change anything. Wouldn't make him understand. Wouldn't make the pain go away.
It would just give him the satisfaction of knowing he still had power over me.
So instead, I blocked him again. On WhatsApp this time too.
Not out of strength. Not because I was healed.
But because I was tired. Tired of checking if he viewed my status. Tired of hoping he'd reach out. Tired of giving him space in my head and heart when he'd made it clear he wanted nothing to do with either.
I blocked him and told myself: This is it. This is me choosing peace.
But it didn't feel like peace.
It felt like suffocation. Like closing a door on the only person who knew what had really happened. Like sealing myself in with this secret that was slowly poisoning me from the inside out.
I sat on my bed, phone in my hand, and whispered to the empty room:
"I am not a fool. I survived something traumatic."
The words felt true and false at the same time.
True because I had survived. Was surviving.
False because I didn't feel like a survivor. I felt like someone barely holding on.