I wonder what you think of, when you think of that night, because I don’t have a doubt in my mind that you remembered far more than me. Do you remember our walk home, and how despite the February air that nipped at my neck and tickled my nose, I didn’t even have a shirt on? Do you remember how I stumbled and tripped over my own two feet, like a toddler learning her first steps? The next memory I have was staring out your window, thinking how odd it was that I could see the face of Olin even though I was in Wren; well, I wasn’t in Wren. I stood there and watched as people ambled across Packard, streaking long, tall, thin shadows onto the street, and in a moment of drunkenness, I remember thinking, “how special is it that all of those people down there are thinking their own thoughts, living their own lives. Today was a million days.” I thought that was so cool. I wanted to talk about it. But instead, you pulled me from the window and onto your unmade bed, and in that moment I lost myself again. I think you asked me, every step of the way, and I think I might have even said yes. Yes to your hand clasped so tight around my neck that I felt the warm rushes of blood pooling behind my eyes; yes to you grappling my shoulders and flipping me back and forth, here and there like a ragdoll; yes to everything. But really, it wasn’t me, stringing those three letters together. You should’ve known that. Anybody should’ve known that. To be honest, I don’t remember most of the night, but perhaps the most lucid memory that has stepped out from my mental fog was the feeling of you cumming on my naked ass, and wiping it off with a sock that laid on your bedroom floor. I was facedown, legs curled underneath me. My heart still drops a little bit when I think about that moment. The dehumanization right then was indescribable, and even two years later, I struggle to put my emotions into any semblances of thought. I don’t think you realized any of that, though, or else you probably wouldn’t have wrapped your limbs around my limp, naked body, suffocating me in a cocoon I never wanted. I remember waking up to traces of your sour breath on my neck and slowly recognizing my reality. You were a stranger, albeit a "nice" one, who helped me strip myself to my most vulnerable core; and you’ll probably never realize it. It took me years to associate the word “rape” with what happened to me that night — after all, I said yes. But what you did was wrong, and the pitiful whimpers of admission I repeated weren’t actually that. Today, I've begun to forgive you, but forgiveness is not a pardon. Today, I’m moving forward — not on.