I’m not sure what I want to happen when we run into each other. Are you ashamed of what you did? You should be. But how will you deal with your shame? Will you keep your head down, pretending that I’m not there and that it never happened? Will you sheepishly make eye contact, knowing that you should apologize, but too afraid to do so? Give me the awkward nod and hand raise?
And what will I do? Will I ignore you? Pretend that you’re a ghost after what you’ve done, and that you no longer exist? I want to slap you in the face. I want to call you an asshole, a jerk, and make you understand the piece of shit that you are, but that wouldn’t be polite. So what will I do? We’re getting closer now, about to pass…
“Hey! How are you?” You greet me cheerfully, midstride. Before I’m even aware of what’s going on, my reflexes are kicking in and I’m smiling into your face, waving as I walk away from you. What just happened?
That’s when I realize that you must not remember. Or if you do, you’re remembering incorrectly. You were drunk, and I was sober. While my back can still feel the wall that you pressed me into, and my body can still feel the grab of your unwanted ghost hands; while my arms remember the strain of trying to keep you away from me and off of me, my throat is hoarse with the memory of telling you “No,” and my cheeks can still feel the slobber from your forced kisses, what are you feeling? Maybe all you remember is annoyance, because I could tell you were annoyed when a friend finally forced you off of me. I was grateful; I was relieved. My arms had been about to give out. What a contrast that is, between annoyance and relief, and the beauty of escape into the outside air. You ruined that party for me, and scared me away from a few others.
And now you don’t even remember it? That’s bullshit. To you, everything is the same as it always was. If I suddenly stopped greeting you, I would be a bitch. If I complained about it, I would be overreacting. It happened too long ago. To bring it up now would seem foolish to everyone else who would have forgotten that night. I can’t help remembering every time I see you, and every time I automatically wave back my contempt for you grows almost to match the contempt I feel for myself. You have so much power over me, and you aren’t even aware of it.
The truly messed up thing is that I know if I got you in trouble, I would feel guilty. As if it was my fault, and not the consequence of your own actions. When did I turn into the girl who blames herself? Have I always been her?
I know that I’ll never get an apology, and that I’ll never feel safe around you. I know that you’ll always be ignorant of this. I just hope you haven’t done it to anyone else.