They gave me three days.
Three days to prepare my statement. Three days to decide how much of the past I was ready to pour into the present.
Three days to relive it all.
I thought I'd be okay.
I wasn't.
The night before the interview, I couldn't sleep.
My hands trembled as I pulled my journal from under the pillow. I didn't write. I didn't even open it. I just held it to my chest like it was the last piece of me that still made sense.
I stared at the ceiling and wondered how people did this.
How survivors walked into rooms and spoke truths that nearly killed them.
How they said it out loud—the shame, the pain, the nights they thought about not waking up.
How they told the world: he hurt me.
The next morning, I dressed slowly.
Sweatshirt. Jeans. No makeup.
I wanted to disappear.
Mrs. Langley made toast and eggs. I couldn't eat either.
"You'll do great," she said gently, handing me a bottle of water. "Just breathe."
I nodded, even though breathing felt like betrayal.
Because every inhale reminded me I'd survived.
And every exhale reminded me of everything I survived.
The police station was colder than I expected.
Gray walls. Metal chairs. Too much silence.
A woman officer led me to a room that smelled faintly of lemon and ink. There was a camera in the corner. A recorder on the table.
"I'm Officer Janine," she said softly. "I'll be asking you some questions. You don't have to answer anything you're not comfortable with, okay?"
I nodded.
Sat down.
And tried not to break.
She pressed a button. The red light blinked on.
"State your name."
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
My throat tightened. My chest burned.
Then—
"I'm Lina West."
My voice didn't sound like mine.
It was smaller. Fragile. Like it had traveled too far to get here.
"Lina," she said gently. "I want you to tell me what happened. In your own words. Start wherever you're ready."
My fingers twisted in my lap.
Then slowly, like unraveling a thread I never meant to pull, I began.
"I was thirteen the first time I noticed something was wrong."
I talked.
And talked.
And talked.
About the way he looked at me. The way he entered my room without knocking. The way his voice changed when Mom wasn't home. The way he touched my shoulder too long. Too low.
About the first time he crossed the line.
About the dozens of times after.
About the things I couldn't even say out loud, but hinted at with averted eyes and shaking breath.
"I told myself I imagined it," I whispered at one point. "Because I couldn't believe someone who shared my blood could hurt me like that."
Officer Janine didn't interrupt.
She didn't pity me.
She just listened.
Like my words were sacred.
When I finished, my voice was raw.
My shirt was damp with sweat.
And I felt… empty.
But lighter.
Like I'd just set fire to a forest that had been choking me for years.
"You were brave," Officer Janine said quietly. "I know that word gets thrown around, but I mean it."
I didn't reply.
Because for the first time—I believed it.
I was brave.
Not for surviving.
But for speaking.
When I stepped outside, the sun hit my face like a slap.
I blinked hard, adjusting to the light.
And that's when I saw him.
Aariz.
Leaning against a street pole.
He'd waited.
He hadn't even told me he would.
He just knew.
I walked toward him slowly.
He looked up, his eyes softening as he saw my face.
No questions.
No pressure.
Just quiet understanding.
"How'd it go?" he asked.
"I told them everything," I said. "Almost everything."
"You okay?"
"No."
Then—
"I think I will be."
We sat on a bench across the street.
For a long time, we said nothing.
I leaned my head on his shoulder, and he let me.
My eyes stung. My limbs felt heavy. But my heart…
It wasn't crumbling.
It was rebuilding.
Later that evening, Mrs. Langley made soup.
The kind with carrots and too much pepper.
I sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around the bowl.
It was the first thing I'd eaten all day.
Each spoonful felt like reclaiming a little more of myself.
That night, I dreamed.
Not of him.
Not of pain.
But of myself—older. Standing in front of a crowd, reading from a book I wrote.
My voice didn't tremble.
My hands didn't shake.
I was telling my story.
And people listened.
When I woke, I reached for my journal.
And this time, I wrote.
"I opened the wound. And I didn't bleed out."
"I told the truth. And it didn't kill me."
"The silence had teeth. But so do I."
"I am still here."