Five weeks after, I still jumped at certain sounds.
A phone notification that sounded like his. A laugh that reminded me of his voice. The smell of the cologne he wore.
My body had developed its own alarm system, always scanning for danger that wasn't there anymore.
I stopped watching romantic movies.
My friends would put something on—some romance or American rom-com—and I'd make excuses to leave.
"Since when do you hate love stories?" one of them asked.
"I don't hate them. Just not in the mood."
But it wasn't about mood. It was about the way my chest tightened during intimate scenes. The way I couldn't separate fiction from memory. The way every kiss on screen reminded me of kisses that led to pain.
I started noticing things I'd never paid attention to before.
How many girls around me carried stories they never told. How many smiled through pain they couldn't name. How many had learned to make themselves smaller to stay safe.
One girl in my class mentioned casually that her ex had "gotten rough" once and she'd broken up with him.
Another talked about a guy who "wouldn't take no for an answer" at a party.
They said these things lightly, like footnotes in larger stories. But I heard what they weren't saying.
We've all been hurt. We've all learned to minimize it. We've all been taught that our pain doesn't matter as much as keeping the peace.
Six weeks after, I saw his cousin on campus.
Mr. T. The one I'd met first. The one who'd given me his number to stay at his place.
Our eyes met across the courtyard. He started to smile, started to walk toward me.
I turned and walked the other direction.
My heart pounded. My hands shook. But I kept moving.
I didn't owe him a conversation. Didn't owe him an explanation for why I'd disappeared.
I started writing things down.
Not a diary exactly. Just... fragments. Moments I couldn't stop thinking about.
The way he held his phone up to make videos of us kissing.
The blood on my hands when I pulled them away.
"It slipped."
"Sweet pain."
"I thought you understood."
Writing them down didn't make them hurt less. But it made them feel less chaotic. Like I was organizing evidence for a trial that would never happen.
Seven weeks after, I went to the library to work on my assignment.
A guy sat down across from me. Nice-looking. Friendly smile.
"Is this seat taken?"
"No, go ahead."
We worked in silence for a while. Then he asked, "What are you studying?"
Before that painful expereience, I would've engaged. Would've chatted, maybe flirted a little, seen where it went.
But now, my body went rigid. My brain screamed danger even though he'd done nothing threatening.
"I have to go," I said abruptly, gathering my things.
I left him looking confused.
Outside, I sat on a bench and tried to calm my racing heart.
He was just being friendly. Normal. That's what normal people do.
But I didn't feel normal anymore. Didn't know if I ever would again.
Eight weeks after, I broke down in the bathroom between classes.
It came out of nowhere. One minute I was washing my hands, the next I was sobbing so hard I couldn't breathe.
A girl I didn't know came in, saw me, asked if I was okay.
"I'm fine," I managed between sobs. "Just having a bad day."
She handed me paper towels, rubbed my back awkwardly, then left when it became clear I wasn't going to elaborate.
I stayed there for twenty minutes, letting it all out. The grief, the anger, the confusion, the shame.
When I finally emerged, my eyes were swollen and my face was blotchy. But I felt slightly lighter. Like some of the pressure had been released.
That night, my friend asked me directly: "Did that guy assault you?"
We were in our room. I was on my bed, she was on hers.
The word hung in the air between us.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "I don't know what to call it."
"Did you want it to happen?"
"No. Not the first time. I tried to stop him but he was stronger."
"Then that's assault."
"But I went back. I let him do it again."
"That doesn't change what the first time was."
I pulled my knees to my chest. "I keep thinking if I'd just been stronger, or smarter, or—"
"Stop. This isn't on you. You told him no. He did it anyway. That's on him."
I wanted to believe her. But belief required letting go of the version of events where I had some control. Where my choices mattered.
And if I let go of that, I had to accept that I'd been powerless. Violated. Broken by someone who claimed to care about me.
I wasn't ready to accept that yet.