I was five years old the first time it happened. A cousin touched me in ways he shouldn't have, and even though I didn't have words for it yet, I knew something was wrong. I told my mother. I remember that much clearly. But instead of protecting me, she told me to keep it quiet and not to tell anyone else in the family. So I did what she asked. I stayed silent even though the discomfort never really left me. Then, years later, in Class 6, it happened again worse this time. Exactly the same cousin grabbed me by my hair, dragged me into a garage and put his hand over my mouth so no one would hear me. He forced me to touch him and hurt me physically. I was a child and I was terrified and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Later, when I finally trusted someone enough to open up . It was my ex-boyfriend I told him everything, hoping he'd understand what I'd been through. Instead, he did the same things to me. That one hurt differently. It wasn't just betrayal, it was the collapse of the one safe place I thought I'd found. I still carry all of it. Some days it's quiet, tucked away somewhere I don't have to look at it. Other days it's right there and impossible to ignore. But I'm still here, still standing even with the weight of it.