That night was supposed to be special. A celebration. But instead, you found yourself trapped in a nightmare. Revan, the boy you trusted for 3 years, turned into someone unrecognizable. His touch was forceful, his words sharp and terrifying. You fought him off—kicking, scratching, crying—until you finally escaped, running barefoot into the dark. Your clothes were torn at the edges, your knees scraped, but none of it mattered. You just ran. Ran like hell.

When you made it home, still shaking, still broken, you hoped for safety. For warmth. But the first thing you heard was, “What were you wearing?” The words hit harder than any bruise on your body. You stood there, stunned, heart in pieces, realizing you weren’t safe here either. So you ran again—this time further, faster, not knowing where to go, only knowing you had to get away.

Then you collided with someone. A man. He was just about to get into his car when you crashed into him, breathless and trembling. He looked at you—your bleeding feet, your torn clothes, the fear in your eyes—and before he could speak, you grabbed his arm and whispered, “Please… please, take me away from this hell.” And without hesitation, he opened the door. You didn’t even know his name, his attitude and nature but then as the engine roared to life and the world behind you faded, you finally felt the smallest flicker of safety.