E’s story: Friends Keep Secrets

Being friends meant so much to me. We were young and naive, I, more so.
I told you about everything. All of the drama—the arguments I had with my mom. I even told you about the things that excited me, such as new music that just came out, or my favorite play I’d want you to watch. We were close, but you wanted more. Somehow, my loyalty wasn’t good enough for you along the way. We grew up together, and for you that was a decent enough reason. You liked me, or so you said, but when your friends were around I wasn’t good enough. You liked me, and me not liking you back was just me “playing hard to get,” but I get it. Girls were told that if they weren’t kind to boys, no one would like them. So I kept quiet. My young naivety kept me quiet. When I was upset, I confronted you about it and you lashed out on me. It was my fault, I “didn’t say no.” Tears don’t have words. If we’re friends, I expect to share everything with you, somehow that included my body. I didn’t reach out to anyone, I didn’t ask for help. You were right, I didn’t say no. It became routine for me to disassociate and accept what was happening. I didn’t speak up, and to you that meant I wanted it. The thought of running was there, but my body never moved. I haven’t told anyone this out of fear that I’d be judged, or simply tossed to the side like my feelings were disposable. The truth is, I still live with it and I still feel you there every time a man approaches me. I reject relationships out of fear that it might lead to the unwanted. Your face is one I’ll never forget, and I’m still trying to learn that it’s not my fault.