The day finally came.
My aunt escorted me to the public bus, her face unreadable. As I turned to leave, she spoke, her voice breaking.
"Who will help me with my work?"
I looked at her, this woman who had never shown me love, who had treated me like a burden rather than family.
"God is your strength," I said simply.
And with that, I turned away.
As the bus pulled away, I felt a wave of emotions crash over me—relief, excitement, fear. I was leaving behind a life of fake love, fake friends, fake family.
I was finally free.
But deep inside, I knew—I would return. Not for them.
For her,My True Friend.
Before setting off for the university, I returned to the home I had left behind eleven years ago—the home where I once belonged.
My family welcomed me with open arms. My mother's eyes glowed with joy, and she held me so tightly, as if she never wanted to let go. My father, always the quiet pillar of strength, observed me with pride.
My mother, eager to know what I had endured living with my aunt, tried to make me talk. She wanted details, but I held my tongue. Some truths were too painful to speak, and I refused to ruin the peace of my home.
Sensing my silence, my father took a different approach. Instead of questions, he provided solutions—buying everything I needed for school, making sure my journey was well planned. His way of showing love was through actions, and for that, I was grateful.
As I packed for my new life, excitement and fear waged war in my heart. I had no idea what awaited me in the outside world.
Even before stepping into my new world, I was already making connections.
In my university's student group, I searched for accommodation, and that was when he found me.
A stranger. A man.
He slid into my messages, smooth and confident.
At first, the chats were innocent. He was a final-year student, charming and well-built, with pink lips that seemed to invite curiosity. He asked for my pictures, and I sent them. In return, he sent a video of himself—tall, muscular, undeniably attractive.
"I know you're a fresher," he teased.
I admitted it. He liked that.
As the days passed, our chats took a different turn. He flirted, testing my reactions. And I—young, naïve, and eager for excitement—played along.
Then came the question.
"Are you a virgin?"
Fear gripped me. I didn't want to seem inexperienced. I didn't want him to think I was a child. So I lied.
"No," I typed. "I've had sex before."
He was pleased. He asked about my favorite positions. I panicked. I had no experience, no knowledge. So I turned to Google, quickly searching for answers.
"Doggy… cowgirl… missionary," I typed, hoping to sound believable.
He was impressed. That night, we talked for hours, and in the safety of my room, I smiled, feeling wanted—desired.
Little did I know, that one lie would change everything.
The day finally arrived.
My father sat me down, his voice laced with wisdom and concern. He reminded me that I was no longer a child, that the world was full of both good and bad. He urged me to stay focused, to chase success, and to return with a good result.
I promised him I would.
At the bus station, he hugged me tightly before letting go.
And just like that, my journey began.
I had already secured a female roommate, and stepping into the university felt like entering a new world—one filled with freedom but also overwhelming responsibilities.
Lectures, registrations, endless queues—I hadn't expected the weight of it all. Making friends was harder than I thought, but one thing remained constant: him.
The man from my chats.
He visited me once, and our laughter made the loneliness bearable. He was charming, funny, and his presence gave me a sense of belonging.
Until the day he invited me to his home.