Charlie
The click of the door barely registers.
I can’t stop shaking.
My whole body is locked in violent tremors, knees pulled tight to my chest, arms wrapped around my head like I can somehow shield myself from the memory that’s swallowing me whole. The tears won’t stop. They keep coming in ugly, gasping sobs that burn my throat and make my chest ache.
I thought I could do it.
I really thought I could let Hunter have me tonight. I wanted it. I wanted him inside me, wanted to feel full and claimed and wanted. I was so turned on, so ready, moaning and pushing back against him like I was starving for it.
But the second he flipped me onto my stomach and pinned my wrists down…
I was back in the prayer room.
Rough carpet burning my knees. Adult hands heavy on my shoulders, then my back, pressing me face-down while they tried to fuck the demons out of me.
The low chant of “deliver us from perversion” echoing in my ears while they were doing exactly what they were praying against as they raped me.
The weight. The helplessness. The shame that never quite left me.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I knew was that I had to get free.
And now Hunter’s gone.
The apartment feels too quiet. Too empty. Sofia jumps onto the bed and pushes her head against my arm, purring loudly like she’s trying to fix me. I pull her close, burying my face in her soft fur, but the sobs keep ripping out of me.
I ruined it.
Our relationship was the best thing I’ve experienced in years, and I ruined it. Because I’m broken. I turned into that scared fifteen-year-old kid again, crying and shaking while someone tried to take something from me.
I wanted him so badly. I still do. But the second I was face-down, wrists trapped, something inside me snapped, and all I could feel was terror.
I cry harder, muffling the sound against Sofia’s side. My wrists ache where he held them. My neck stings from his bites. My body is still buzzing with leftover arousal and adrenaline, but it’s all twisted up with shame now.
Why can’t I just be normal?
Why can’t I have sex without falling apart?
The memory of Hunter’s voice keeps replaying.
“I’m going to take your ass tonight.”
I wanted that. I wanted him to take me. But the second I was in that position, it wasn’t Hunter anymore. It was Pastor Dale and the other men holding me down, trying to fuck the gay out of me.
I curl tighter into a ball, shaking so hard my teeth chatter.
I don’t know how long I stay like that. Long enough for the tears to slow into quiet, hiccuping sobs and for Sofia to start kneading my arm, purring like a broken motor.
I reach for my phone with a trembling hand, but I don’t open our chat. I can’t. Not yet. I don’t know what to say.
Sorry I freaked out while you were about to fuck me.
Sorry my trauma is louder than how much I want you.
Sorry I’m so broken.
I drop the phone and pull the blanket over my head, curling around Sofia as though she can protect me from the memories still crawling under my skin.
Sleep doesn’t come. And when the morning light starts to seep into my space I force myself to uncurl.
My muscles protest. My eyes are swollen. My throat feels raw. But I have a shift at the art store at nine, and I’m not calling off. I’m not letting this win. I’ve spent too many years letting the prayer room win.
I drag myself into the shower and stand under the hot water until my skin turns red. I scrub harder than I need to, as though I can wash the memory off. It doesn’t work. The shame stays lodged behind my ribs.
I get dressed in my usual—cropped hoodie, ripped jeans, fresh eyeliner to hide the redness in my eyes. I look… normal. Like nothing happened and I didn’t have a full-blown panic attack while the man I want more than anything was about to fuck me.
Mrs. Lovelady greets me with her usual warm smile when I walk into the store. I smile back. I laugh at her joke about the new shipment of overpriced markers. I help a college kid find the right sketchbook. I move through the day like a ghost wearing my own face.
I check my phone during my break. No messages from Hunter.
The silence hurts more than I expected. I’ve been ghosted before after having a panic attack, so it shouldn’t be surprising.
Most people don’t want to deal with the possibility of their hookup turning into a sobbing, shaking mess before they even get inside you, and not for a good reason.
Still. It stings.
I stare at our chat for a long time, thumb hovering. Then I type quickly before I can talk myself out of it:
Me: I’m really sorry about last night. I thought I could handle it, and I panicked. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry I ruined it.
I hit send and immediately lock the screen. I don’t expect a reply. I don’t even know if I want one. Part of me hopes he just fades out quietly. Another, louder part is terrified that’s exactly what’s happening.
I sit there for the rest of my break with my knees pulled up, chewing on my bottom lip. When I finally check the phone again before heading back to the floor, there’s nothing. Only the little “delivered” under my message.
I swallow hard and shove the phone into my pocket.
Mrs. Lovelady notices something’s off when I come back out. She doesn’t push, just quietly sets aside a slightly damaged pack of my favorite charcoal pencils and slides it across the counter with a gentle smile.
“Take these home, sweetheart. You look like you could use them.”
I thank her, voice cracking just a little, and go back to helping customers like everything is fine.
Because that’s what I do.
I smile. I laugh. I pretend.
Even when I’m quietly falling apart on the inside.
When my shift finally ends, Lucy is waiting for me outside the store like always, leaning against the lamppost with a wide smile that feels like home. We have a standing weekly dinner date that I would never cancel, no matter how raw I feel.
She takes one look at me and her smile falters.
“Uh oh,” she says, pushing off the post. “That’s your ‘I’m pretending I’m okay, but I’m one wrong word away from crying’ face. What happened?”
I try to laugh it off, but it comes out weak. “Can we just… get food first? I’m starving.”
She studies me for another second, then loops her arm through mine. “Fine. But you’re spilling everything over pad Thai, or I’m ordering the spiciest thing on the menu and force-feeding you.”
We end up at our usual Thai place, tucked into a corner booth. It’s the same place Hunter brought food from last night. I could eat it every night if given the chance. But the memory of last night makes my stomach sour a little. The second our drinks arrive, Lucy leans forward, chin in her hands.
“Talk.”
I stir the straw in my iced Thai tea, watching the condensation drip down the glass. My throat feels tight again.
“Just some drama,” I say, attempting to smile.
She lifts a single eyebrow and stares at me, waiting for me to say more.
I chew on my lower lip and glance away. “I had a panic attack instead of having sex…and probably scared off a really great guy.”
“Oh, Charlie…” Lucy’s voice softens immediately. She reaches across the table and takes my hand, squeezing it tight. “I’m sorry. That sounds awful. Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head, eyes stinging again. “Not the details. Just… it was going really well. Really well. And then my brain decided to throw me back into conversion therapy the second things got intense. I completely froze up and told him to leave.”
Lucy’s thumb rubs gently over my knuckles, the way she always does when I’m spiraling.
“He stopped, right?”
“Yeah. Immediately. He was really gentle after. But I still made him go. I couldn’t… I couldn’t even look at him.”
She nods, understanding without needing all the pieces. She’s been here for every ugly chapter of my trauma. She knows.
“And you haven’t heard from him since?”
I shake my head. “I texted him an apology this morning. No reply.”
Lucy is quiet for a moment, then gives my hand another squeeze.
“He might be processing, too. Some guys don’t know what to do when they trigger someone they care about.
Especially if they’re carrying their own heavy shit.
” She tilts her head. “But if he ghosts you after that…then he wasn’t ready for you anyway.
You deserve someone who can handle the hard parts, not just the fun ones. ”
I nod, but my chest still feels hollow.
“I really liked him, Luce. Like…stupidly liked him. It felt different.”
“I know, babe.” She gives me a small, sad smile. “And maybe it still can be. But right now, you focus on you. Eat your noodles. Cry if you need to. And if he doesn’t text back…we’ll eat ice cream and talk shit about him until 2 a.m.. Bestie rules.”
I let out a watery laugh and squeeze her hand back.
“Thank you.”
“Always.”
The food comes, and I manage to eat most of it. Lucy carries the conversation, filling the space with funny stories so I don’t have to. I laugh when I’m supposed to. I smile when I can.
But every time my phone stays silent in my pocket, the ache gets a little deeper.
I really thought Hunter might be different.
Now I’m not sure if I’ll ever hear from him again.