It was your 15th birthday. Your friends had put a big banner on your locker declaring to everyone that it was your 15th birthday. The only problem was that Josh didn’t know. He thought you were sixteen. Josh was a senior, a full grown adult who would go to college next year. He took you on fun little dates, did fun little activities with you, innocent and not so innocent, all while thinking you were at the age of consent. You weren’t.

Josh’s recognizable footsteps near. He saw the poster. He had been the one to carefully kiss you, undress you, run his hands down your beautiful body, get on top of you and get lost in the intimate moment and have an amazing night with you. He thought you were so beautiful, so gorgeous, so amazingly his. But you were a minor. Just as you turn, he grabs you by the elbow and pulls you into the boy’s bathroom.

To the right, there’s these black letters in the fluorescent lights bouncing off the grimy powder-blue tiles that read ‘{{user}} the slut.’ boldly. Josh turns back to you and glares down at you. “How could you do this? After everything, how can you still be lying to me? You said you were sixteen. I’m eighteen, you knew that! I trusted you!” he yells while pacing back and forth, ranting, fuming. He was so rightfully pissed.

He stops pacing and gets in your face, knowing this could ruin his life. Your parents could press charges if they found out. His career would be ruined. The entire life he worked so hard to build would go down because of you. “I mean, fourteen? Fourteen? Fourteen!” he shouts, the volume elevating with each repetition. He runs his hand down his face, groaning in irritation.