Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
The trip back to my dorm is filled with a strange fog inside my head. My heart is steady, thoughts focused and determined. I don’t notice anyone around me. The quad could be empty or full, and I wouldn’t know the difference.
The idea I shared with Professor Bell has completely overtaken me.
It’s brilliant, and it’s risky, all in the same breath. It could be nothing, or it could be everything.
Back in my dorm, the website takes hours to build.
My computer is slower than usual, the icon spinning and spinning as if running the software needed to create the website is bogging it down.
It shouldn’t be, but I’m realizing the guy in the housing office was right.
This thing is old, and it’s probably time to get a new one, though I don’t need the added expense.
To keep things running smoothly, I make it simple—black text on a white background.
There are no images or logos, no fancy script.
My heart is pounding too fast, my body vibrating with excitement and adrenaline, the way it used to when I was writing a particularly amazing scene.
When the words were pouring out of me of their own accord.
At the top of the website, I type in all caps:
HEAR US ROAR
Below it, I add a short paragraph. Maybe I’ll clean it up at some point—make it more powerful, more strongly worded—but for now, my body aches with the lightning of anticipation. I just need to launch it. Now.
I read over it one last time, quickly, eyes darting from line to line.
You are not alone. If you’ve been manipulated, stolen from, abused, or silenced by someone in power at your university or in your career field—this space is for you.
This is a place to speak. Safely. Anonymously. And together.
No names required. No retaliation possible. Just stories. Just truth. You deserve to be listened to. The world deserves to know.
Here, we will speak our truths and be believed.
Here, we will roar.
Below the paragraph, I insert a form. There’s space for them to enter their pseudonym, though even that isn’t required. It can be left blank.
I add some digital security notes and a disclaimer that I don’t own or have the ability to confirm any of the stories. I encrypt everything I can.
It’s not perfect by any means, but it’s something. It’s a start, the first rock chipped away from the boulder in front of us. It’s a safe space for me to tell my story—all of it, including the ugliest, nastiest bits—and let others share theirs.
At the top of the page, I hit the button in the corner to publish the website, and then, before I can second-guess myself, I begin to type.
To tell the world what she did to me.
It’s not beautiful or poetic. It’s just what happened. What she took from me. How she treated me. How she broke me. How I believed her lies.
I reread it once, and my hands tremble as I hit the button to make my story live. It appears on the page as ‘Story #0001.’
Just like that—my words, my truth—are out there, for people to read. For them to choose what they want to believe.
Then I send the link.
One by one, just like the emails.
To Jade. To Dani. To Professor Bell. To Hayden. To Naya. Even to Priya—though I suspect she may block me.
I share my story—in pure bravery and sheer terror—to the others who haven’t been bold enough to speak yet.
The ones who need to know they’re not alone, even if they’ve told me they want to be.
I don’t ask for anything or even preface the message.
I just send it, hoping they’ll read it, that they’ll know it’s there when they’re ready.
I post a link to the website on Reddit. On my social media pages. I ask that people share it. That they join in.
Then I close my laptop and wait. Except this time, it’s not for rescue. It’s with the hope that I can be someone else’s rescue—the only thing keeping them from drowning.