Below the paragraph, I insert a form. There’s space for them to enter their pseudonym, though even that isn’t required. It can be left blank.
I add some digital security notes and a disclaimer that I don’t own or have the ability to confirm any of the stories. I encrypt everything I can.
It’s not perfect by any means, but it’s something. It’s a start, the first rock chipped away from the boulder in front of us. It’s a safe space for me to tell my story—all of it, including the ugliest, nastiest bits—and let others share theirs.
At the top of the page, I hit the button in the corner to publish the website, and then, before I can second-guess myself, I begin to type.
To tell the world what she did to me.
It’s not beautiful or poetic. It’s just what happened. What she took from me. How she treated me. How she broke me. How I believed her lies.
I reread it once, and my hands tremble as I hit the button to make my story live. It appears on the page as ‘Story #0001.’
Just like that—my words, my truth—are out there, for people to read. For them to choose what they want to believe.
Then I send the link.
One by one, just like the emails.
To Jade. To Dani. To Professor Bell. To Hayden. To Naya. Even to Priya—though I suspect she may block me.
I share my story—in pure bravery and sheer terror—to the others who haven’t been bold enough to speak yet. The ones who need to know they’re not alone, even if they’ve told me they want to be. I don’t ask for anything or even preface the message. I just send it, hoping they’ll read it, that they’ll know it’s there when they’re ready.
I post a link to the website on Reddit. On my social media pages. I ask that people share it. That they join in.
Then I close my laptop and wait. Except this time, it’s not for rescue. It’s with the hope that I can be someone else’s rescue—the only thing keeping them from drowning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I wake to sunlight in my eyes and a distant buzzing. A swarm of bees seemingly declaring squatters’ rights somewhere near my head.
It takes several seconds to process the sound, to place it. And once I realize it’s my phone rattling against the nightstand, a boulder sinks against my chest. It’s not steady and rhythmic enough to be a phone call, which only leaves one possibility.
The website is live, and people are responding.
Whether in anger or camaraderie, I can only speculate. And for the moment, that’s a lovely place to be.
Finally, I sit up in bed. My eyes are heavy, head throbbing. Hungover on hope, I suppose. Is that possible?
I reach for my phone on the nightstand just as it buzzes again. There are several notifications on my screen, and like I suspected, they’re all from the new website.
I scroll. There are dozens…ten, twenty.Thirty-six.
I read the stories with a lump in my throat, head still cloudy with disbelief. There are posts from random students at Havenport and some from other campuses. Many appear to have used their real first names, while others opted for totallyanonymous screen names. A few have even commented on the stories that have been shared.
I scan the comments under mine.
I’m so grateful.
I have no words except thank you.
Wow. I thought I was the only one.
We’re with you.
Holy shit—I’ve lived with words similar to this in my head for years. Never thought I’d find the courage to speak them aloud, let alone read them from a stranger. Your story is mine and so many others, apparently. We’re not in this alone.
Sending hugs. Thank you for speaking out.
