Anonymous Story: Few weeks ago

The snow has now melted into puddles and when I walked by Beebe yesterday, the ice was starting to crack. It’s been a while now; I think 2 weeks? More? I don’t know. Time is weird these days. I used to be so cognizant of the days passing by; at any point in the semester, I would know exactly how many weeks we are in, and how many weeks to go. It’s like in track, I did not understand how people forgot what lap they were on. I always knew what lap I was on. Well, I have no fucking clue now.
The thing is, I am okay. Kind of. It does not completely shadow every minute of my life. Most moments, I don’t think about it. In all senses, I act and feel fine. I have hooked up with people afterwards. I have even gone to that same fucking annex afterwards—multiple times. I am okay with telling people about it and I sound casual while doing so too.
But I think it’s going to be a while since I will go beyond making out, or date anyone. And a while before I sometimes wake up from naps terrorized that he is clutching me again. But its a small price to pay. It’s whatever.
I am not a ‘perfect’ victim (if you would even call it that), and everyone may play dumb but they know exactly what they are talking about. I wore a crop top. I willingly stepped into their annex tipsy and drank their alcohol. I was dancing suggestively, and then was actively dancing with—grinding on—him. Fucking hell, I went up to his fucking room and fucking blew him and was fucking naked and fucking agreed to sleep over. And he is in a “really good” frat, and he is good looking and tall, and I “should” definitely be down. But when I woke up at 6AM him fingering me and trying to cram his dick inside me, I don’t think I consented to that. When I tried to roll over to the other side, to cross my legs, to avoid it as much as possible, I don’t think I consented to that. When he said “oh you don’t like that, huh” and continued, I really don’t think I consented to that.
I know I am lucky. I got up and said I was going to the bathroom. The door was double locked but he reluctantly agreed to open it. I wrapped myself around a big towel and clutched my phone and called an uber. It was here in two minutes. I ran outside the side door completely naked besides a towel, and barefoot, and went to my dorm.
You know, I really liked the clothes I left. I wore that top on the first day of college. I got those jeans over winter break and it was one of my first few times wearing them. And I got the sneakers in (redacted), and they kept with them so many walks along (redacted) park, to my friend’s flat, to my favorite grocery store. I really didn’t want to leave without them. Also it was cold as fuck. But I could not dare to step inside that room again. I was worried I would not be able to leave until after something much worse happened.
I don’t know. I feel even as I am writing this, I am overreacting. Mostly I am not hurting. I laugh and have a good time and I still can feel real moments of happiness. And I am usually preoccupied with not failing my classes or keeping my room semi-clean and petty social things. I guess that’s mostly why I didn’t report it. I felt like a fake and I felt unjustified; not damaged enough.
Some nights, though, it keeps me awake inside a body I don’t feel safe in. I guess its just one of those nights