The second night started the same way the first one ended, with his smile, his presence filling the room in a way that made everything else fade to background noise.
My friend had already gone to bed. She was exhausted, knocked out the moment her head hit the pillow. I should've joined her. Should've said goodnight to Mr. Z and walked upstairs to safety.
But I didn't want to.
We'd had fun the night before—the kissing, the touching, the way he made me feel desired in a way I'd never experienced. It was intoxicating. And when he suggested we hang out again, just the two of us, I didn't hesitate.
"Come to my room," he said. "We can talk, watch something."
I followed him.
His room was dimmer than the rest of the house, lit only by the glow of his phone screen. We sat on his bed, talking at first. About nothing and everything. He asked about school, about my plans after school, about what I wanted from life.
I told him what I wanted him to know. He listened in a way that felt rare—really listened, nodding at the right moments, asking follow-up questions.
"You're different," he said at one point.
"Different how?"
"I don't know. Just... real. Most girls aren't like you."
I smiled. I wanted to believe him.
Then he kissed me.
It was softer this time, slower. His hands moved over my pajama top, tracing patterns on my back, my waist. I kissed him back, let myself sink into the feeling.
This was still okay. This was still within my boundaries.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered against my neck.
My heart raced. I felt wanted. Special. Like maybe this—whatever this was—could be something good.
His hands moved lower. I didn't stop him. We were just kissing, just touching. I'd done this before. I could handle this.
But then I felt him shift. Felt him adjusting himself, his hand moving to his waistband.
A small alarm went off in my head, quiet but insistent.
"What are you doing?" I asked, pulling back slightly.
"Nothing," he said. "Just getting comfortable. It's tight."
I nodded, tried to relax. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe he really was just adjusting his pants.
We kept kissing.
And then I felt it—his hand guiding himself, positioning. I realized what was about to happen a split second before it did.
I tried to grab his hand, tried to stop him. "Wait—"
But he was stronger than me. So much stronger.
The pain was immediate and blinding.
It felt like something inside me ripped. Not gradually, not gently, Like my body was being split open by force.
I screamed.
Not a quiet gasp or a whimper. A full, guttural scream that came from somewhere deep in my chest.
I shoved him off me with everything I had, scrambling backward on the bed. My hands flew between my legs and when I pulled them away, they were covered in blood.
So much blood.
"Oh my God," I whispered. "Oh my God, I'm bleeding."
Dark red, almost black in the dim light. And it wasn't just blood—there were clots. Thick, heavy clots sliding out of me like something vital was leaving my body.
I thought I was dying.
"It's okay, it's okay," Mr. Z said, his voice suddenly urgent, panicked. "It was an accident. I didn't mean—it just slipped. I swear it just slipped."
Slipped.
That word would haunt me for weeks.
My whole body was shaking. Not just trembling—vibrating like I was going into shock. I couldn't catch my breath. Couldn't think straight. All I could focus on was the blood, the pain radiating through my pelvis, the feeling that something irreversible had just happened.
"I need—" My voice came out broken. "I need help."
He jumped into action then. Got towels, cleaned me up with hands that were surprisingly gentle given what those same hands had just done. He kept apologizing, kept saying it was a mistake, kept promising I'd be okay.
"I'm going to get you something," he said. "Stay here."
He left. I heard him moving around the house, heard a door open and close, and then silence.
I sat there on his bed, wrapped in a towel, trying to process what had just happened.
I'd told him I was a virgin. I'd told him—clearly, explicitly—that I wasn't ready for sex. And he'd done it anyway.
But he said it was an accident. He said it slipped.
Maybe it was an accident. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe this was just what sex felt like the first time and I was being dramatic.
My mind scrambled to make sense of it, to find a version of events that didn't make me a victim.
He came back with a pill, emergency contraception—and a pack of sanitary pads.
"Take this," he said, handing me the pill and a glass of water. "It'll help. And use these."
I took the pill. Put on a pad. Let him help me to his bathroom to clean up properly.
The bleeding was still heavy. Each time I wiped, the tissue came back red.
When I came out, he was sitting on the bed, head in his hands.
"I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't mean for that to happen. You have to believe me."
And because I needed to believe him—because the alternative was too terrifying to face alone in his house at night while bleeding onto a stranger's sheets—I nodded.
"I know."
"Come here," he said, patting the space beside him.
I should've left. Should've woken my friend. Should've called someone.
But I didn't. I sat down next to him.
He pulled me into his arms, held me while I cried silently. Stroked my hair. Whispered that everything would be okay.
And my brain, desperate to make sense of the chaos, latched onto this tenderness. Told me that someone who stays up all night taking care of you after hurting you must actually care.
Told me that maybe this was just a terrible accident, and now we were bonded by it.
Told me that the pain would pass but this connection—this intimacy of shared trauma—that would mean something.
I bled for two days.
Not light spotting. Not the "normal bleeding" he promised would stop soon. Heavy, clotted, painful bleeding that soaked through pads and made me afraid to stand up too quickly.
I'd had a tear. I could feel it when I moved certain ways, a sharp sting that reminded me of what my body had been through.
But Mr. Z checked on me. Texted throughout the day. Asked how I was feeling. Told me he was worried about me.
And I told myself that meant something.
I told myself that what happened wasn't assault—it was just a mistake between two people who were attracted to each other.
I told myself I was okay.
I told myself a lot of things in those two days.
None of them were true.