I stared at the ceiling and tried to convince myself that morning would make everything normal again. I told myself I could endure one night, that endurance was not surrender, and that nothing truly bad would happen because surely someone would stop it if it did. My body did not believe any of that, and my body refused to rest.
The first touch was so light that I almost convinced myself it was accidental. A shift of weight. A brush against my back. I froze, my heart beginning to pound. Then it happened again, firmer this time, deliberate enough to erase doubt. My throat tightened, and my hands curled into fists beneath the sheets.
I whispered, barely louder than my own breathing, “This is not okay.”
The clock changed, the numbers sharp and exact, and the precision of the moment made my fear feel inevitable. Another touch followed, slow and unmistakable, moving along my side with intent. Panic surged through me, cold and heavy, and I turned abruptly, driven by the need to see what I was being asked to tolerate.