Why am I thinking about you at 3 A.M. nine months later? Lines of conversation, pieces of information that I thought I understood fill my mind. This isn’t the typical “missing your ex-boyfriend” feeling that leaves you lying awake at night for maybe an hour before you laugh it off and write a funny tweet about it. This is about a night I can’t remember, in a room I can’t recall, and with a person I cower from now.
Sexual assault isn’t the right title for what happened to me that night, but to be frank I’ll never be sure what exactly did happen to me that night. I know that it’s taken me six months to stop the immediate feeling of tears whenever I felt brave enough to mention this twisted tale to anyone. I know it’s taken me eight months to hear your rendition of that night from one of your pals, inside a McDonald’s at eleven P.M., who told me how much you really did like me. If you liked me so much then why did you insist on walking me across campus to your dorm when I was too intoxicated to walk? If you liked me so much why did you block me after that night? I know it’s taken me nine months for my nerves to become a mild wave of anxiety instead of the jitters that used to run through my entire body.
Worst of all I knew it took me the next day to seek comfort in my friends, just to get none in return. Maybe things would be different if I said something, if I told someone.