When I was in 5th grade, my ELA class was assigned to read Winn Dixie. When we finally got to Dixie’s death scene, my tiny little heart shattered. Another teacher in the room had to come up and wipe away my tears. From that moment on, I was completely and utterly in love with books. The way they can transport you into a different realm has always interested me since that day. 

When I was in 7th grade, my ELA class was my favorite that year solely because I was allowed to read without being told to stop. My teacher even bought books that she knew I wanted to read. It was the highlight of my day. When I walked into class one day I noticed we had just gotten a new seating chart and I was sitting at the back of the classroom with two boys on either side of me, both school friends. I didn't know at the time that that day would haunt me (for) years and years later on.

At 11 years old, I didn't know anything. I hadn’t had the “talk” yet, or even known what my body was doing at the time. The most I had done with a boy was give him a side hug. 

My “friend”, Robert, was seated to my right and to my left was a kid named Ben. Being closer with Robert, friend wise, I sat closer to him on instinct. Our class period was right before lunch, and everyone RJ had expressed how hungry he was and wanted to try and grab some chips from his lunch bag. Unfortunately our teacher didn’t allow food in her room. Being the great friend I am, I moved my leg to cover his bag after he moved his. 

After he had gotten his food, and the class went on, I had completely forgotten about my leg still sprawled out next to his. I had completely forgotten about it until I felt a small circular motion being drawn on my knee. 

    Frozen to my seat, eyes glued to my book, I didn't even turn an eye. I couldn’t muster up any sound to emerge from my lips. I just sat. I guess he took that as a sign of approval. As more time went on, the higher his hand would move. Smiling, blushing, laughing nervously, I kept quiet. Frozen. Confused. Scared. Not wanting to disturb the silent classroom around me. 

My head had been racing, so many different thoughts popping in and out; What’s happening right now? Is this ok? Oh my god, what if someone sees! My leg is getting warmer. Do I want this? Should I say something? Should I ask him to stop? Will he stop? Wait no, I don't want to touch him like that. Why won't he let go of my wrist?! How high is he planning on going? Why won't he stop pulling my chair closer to his after I move away?!

    That same night he had told me in a text, “Listen, I think we should stop this. It’s not you really. I just have to focus on my education right now.” I cried for a month, thinking that what had happened was normal. Thinking that I was going through a “break up”. 

    It wasn’t until 8th grade that my friends began to tell me that the whole scenario felt off. It wasn’t until the summer going into 9th grade that I realized I was a victim of sexual assault. It wasn’t until the 1st semester of freshman year that I had accepted what had happened to me. It wasn’t until the next semester that I wanted to talk to him, confront him, only to be denied that closure. And now, 3 years later, I am a proud survivor of sexual assult.