I Didn’t Disappear.

We went bowling.

I sucked.
You said we were losing because of me.
So I sat down.
Said I wasn’t feeling well.

You didn’t ask why.

The next day,
you asked me to hang out.
I said yes.
You took me to a restaurant
that looked like it didn’t want to be found.
It was cheap.
Laughed like I should be grateful.

Then we sat in your van.
And you kissed me.

And I kissed you back—
because I liked you.
Because I wanted to belong.
Because your sister invited me to temple,
and I thought that meant something.
Because I thought you saw me.

You told me
you couldn’t date me.
Because I wasn’t Zoroastrian-born.
But you were down for a one-time thing.

I said no.
I said I didn’t want casual.
I said I only wanted to
if it meant something.

You kept kissing me.
Touching me.
Telling me to leave hickeys on your neck.
Telling me to suck you off.

And I did.
But not because I changed my mind.
Not because I wanted to.

Because I froze.
Because you wore me down.
Because I thought maybe if I gave you what you wanted,
you’d change your mind.
Because I agreed to fuck you
if you wanted to date me—
even though you had already treated me like
less.

You didn’t want me.
You just wanted the yes.

You saw I wasn’t into it.
You stopped.
You dropped me off.
Told me we shouldn’t hang out alone.

Your glasses broke.
You said you missed the youth committee meeting.
Like that was the tragedy of the night.

The next morning—
I apologized.

Let me say that again.
I apologized.

Not because I had hurt you.
But because I didn’t know
what else to do
with the shame.

It took me three years
and a woman with warm eyes
and a steady voice
to tell me the truth:

That was not a hookup.
That was not miscommunication.
That was not my fault.

You said I didn’t say no to sex.
But I did.
I said yes, if you wanted to be with me.
You didn’t.
You just wanted the yes.

You ignored everything else.

There’s no grace in being violated.
No poetry in being used.

But there is power
in telling the story
without flinching.

So here it is.

Not for you.
For me.
And for the girl I was—
who thought she had to trade her body
for closeness,
and silence
for safety.

She didn’t.
She never did.

And I remember avoiding temple.
The place I should have felt safe.
But I knew you’d be there—
smiling,
hugging,
talking like nothing happened.

You had your reputation.
Your charm.
And I had my silence.

I remember your parents asking
why I didn’t come around anymore.
In my heart
I wanted to say—

Because your son sexually assaulted me.
Because I don’t feel safe in your home.

Even though my heart aches—
because I love your mother,
your father,
and your sister.

But kindness cannot rewrite what happened.
And silence won’t save me anymore.

You thought that after that night,
I’d disappear.
I’d lose interest in being a Zoroastrian.

No.

I came to your house once a week
to learn the prayers,
and I got my navjote.

I became a chairwoman
of the ZSO library.

I will no longer flinch,
in temple,
because I belong here
just as much as any Zoroastrian-born.

I know what you did,
very clearly.

And I will protect myself
from letting that happen
ever again.