Member-only story
I sat in your office, curled into the corner of the dark brown sofa that you’d pressed against the wall of the small room.
I was looking down at my lap, idly tapping the faint scars on the inside of my forearm near my elbow. They’re almost entirely faded now, as I type this, tiny, pale white lines that brighten when my body heats up from exercise or a particularly hot shower.
My nose was stuffed and my eyes burned a little, glazed over as I stared at the design on my leggings.
I’d been crying, letting the guilt of almost a lifetime pour out to you.
You sat quietly, your presence gentle but watchful, saying nothing. Holding space for me to grieve and confess.
“I don’t remember if it’s a dream or if it actually happened,” I whispered softly. I looked up at you, vaguely aware of how pretty you looked that day, your straight black hair falling to your shoulders as your large brown eyes watched my face.
“I don’t know if it’s something I imagined or if he actually did those things to me. And if he did do those things to me, do my parents know? And if he didn’t do those things to me, why did it feel so real?”
You waited a beat before answering. “We might never know if it actually happened to you. But the…
