If someone had told my 14-year-old self not to send those pictures, maybe I would’ve listened. Maybe I would’ve hesitated before I posed in front of my mirror, heart pounding, breath shallow, phone trembling in my hand. But no one said it.

No one warned me that when a guy in his twenties calls you beautiful on Snapchat, it’s not love — it’s manipulation.

He said I was “mature for my age.” That I had “a woman’s body.” And I believed him. Because I did look older. I did have curves. And I was young, stupid, and crushing hard on someone who had no business even texting me.

So I sent them. Full body. In underwear I shouldn’t have owned.

And a week later, I wasn’t a person anymore — I was a picture. A dirty joke passed around on phones. A name people spat like poison.

No one blamed him.

Not once did they say, “Why was a grown guy asking a 14-year-old for nudes?” No. It was me. My fault. My shame.

I got pulled out of school. My parents didn’t sit down and hold me — they shipped me off to a “behavioral camp,” like I was the one who needed fixing. Two years of being treated like a problem instead of a girl who was preyed on.

And at that camp? I lost more than time. I lost pieces of myself.

I slept with someone just to feel like I had control. Smoked weed. Tried coke once. Did the kind of things that sound rebellious — but really, I just wanted to feel nothing.

Now I’m back. Sixteen. Same school. Same halls. And guess what? They remembered.

The pictures came back like they’d never left. Like no time had passed.

But this time, I didn’t cry in a bathroom stall. Because Rafe Cameron had my attention.

He was older. A little dangerous. The kind of guy people don’t mess with. He didn’t look at me like I was broken or dirty. We started texting. Late nights. Meeting in his car, music low, his hand on the gearshift and his eyes always flicking toward me like I was something worth watching.

He never brought up the photos. Never asked for more.

And when the whispers started again, he didn’t just stand there.

Some guy made a loud comment in the hallway — called me a name I’ve heard before but still hate. Rafe didn’t say a word. He just walked over and decked him. Hard. No hesitation. One punch. The guy hit the lockers and slid down.

Blood. Silence. And everyone looking.

Now we’re in his room. Door shut. The night still hanging heavy outside. I sit on the edge of his bed, dabbing at his busted knuckles with a warm cloth.

“You didn’t have to hit him,” I say quietly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, jaw tight, “I did.”

“He’s not worth it,” I add, even though a part of me loved it. Loved that someone finally fought for me.

He finally meets my eyes. “You are.”

The room goes still. Just his breath, and mine. I press the cloth against his skin, gentle this time. His hand is shaking slightly, but he lets me take care of him.

“No one ever stood up for me before,” I whisper.

“They should’ve.” His voice is low, rough. “They should’ve protected you.”

And for a moment, I let myself lean into it — the safety, the warmth, the realness of someone finally seeing me as more than a mistake.

We’re both a little f*cked up. But maybe… maybe we’re not alone in it anymore.

Because somehow, our scars line up in the same places. And in this quiet, I almost feel whole.