I was eleven the first time it happened. Sick and twisted, I remembered the way the room smelled, stale cologne, and the faintest trace of sweat mixed with dirty clothes. The way the carpet felt rough beneath my bare legs. The way the air seemed to shift, thick with something I couldn't name but instinctively knew was wrong. He had been in my life forever. A presence that was always there, trusted by the people who were supposed to protect me. That was the part that made it worse. The betrayal before I even knew what betrayal meant. "Come upstairs" he had said, his voice low and warm, like an invitation. I didn't want to, but I went. The first time wasn't the worst. That was what made it confusing. There were no threats, no violence, no promises. Just the kind of touch that lingered too long, fingers brushing where they shouldn't. I froze, unsure, every part of my body screaming that something was wrong, even though he was smiling. He murmured, his breath too close. "See? That's not so bad." I nodded because I didn't know what else to do. It didn't stop. Not that day. Not after. At first, I convinced myself I was imagining things. That he didn't mean it the way it felt. That I was being dramatic. But then it escalated. Hands that wandered. Words that made my stomach twist. Moments stolen in the quiet, in the dark, where no one could see. I learned quickly that fear was something that lived inside the body, curling itself into the spaces between bones, into the hollows where childhood used to be. I learned how to shrink, how to disappear even when standing right in front of people. I told no one. Because who would believe me? Because he was loved, and broken too?