Her eyes were so blurry from tears, she could barely see where she was walking. She tripped as she struggled to get her jeans back on and hit the floor with a thud. She let out a whimper in pain but didn’t move. She shut her eyes tight, in fear that she had awakened him. When no movement came from the bed, she released another strangled sob. She slipped the jeans up all the way up to where she wore them but she couldn’t fasten them. She curled up on the floor in a fetal position, hugging her bare chest, feeling even more naked with her jeans on than before. She bit her lip to hold back another sob afraid that he would hear at least one of them. She couldn’t believe what she had done. What they had done.

He shifted on the bed and she shut her eyes tight, squeezing even more tears from them. She hoped he didn’t remember. God, she hoped he remembered last night as much as she did. And she didn’t remember anything beyond the large amount of alcohol she drank. That they had all drunk.

She didn’t remember his kiss, the whole way from the bar to his house, to his bed, his body, and his heat. She didn’t remember undressing him or getting undressed. She didn’t remember using any protection. It was her first time, and she couldn’t remember any of it.

She knew she couldn’t get pregnant: she’d just finished her period a day ago. If she had become pregnant with his child…she allowed herself another whimper, higher pitched, more strangled than the others before. She decided in her mind: he wouldn’t know. He’d never know. She’d leave, get out, go back to her house before he woke up. Be in her comfy bed, fully dressed, and reviewing her Physics exam in her head before he’d ever realize he’d wasted his first time on a drunken girl who, in five whole years, had been too shy to ever tell him how much she loved him.

But had she told him? Had she confessed her deepest secrets to him as she swam in lust and instinctual pleasure? Or had they forgotten all about it and fucked like the animals they were?

Everything from her waist down hurt: undeniable proof that they had gone at it long and hard. She was sore like she had done an hour long routine without stretching at all. Her ham-strings burned and her waist muscles blazed like she had spread her legs beyond her physical human boundaries. Her vagina bone itself felt bruised and fractured. Could he have really done that? Was he that strong?

She didn’t want to think about what had happened. She didn’t want to guess what it might have felt like. She didn’t want to imagine how different it would have been had they been sober.

But she did anyway.

He might have kissed her gently, reassured her, promised her the moon and the stars, whispered little bits of nonsense in her ear. He might have groaned her name or shouted it at the top of his lungs for the universe to hear. He might have gone gently, slowly so she wouldn’t have to hurt like this in the morning.

I didn’t matter. They hadn’t. He hadn’t. Now she lay half naked on the floor of his room, wishing it all away, shoving it into the deepest corner of her mind and the filthiest space in her heart. She hadn’t been able to stop herself.

She started crying full out now: her plan to escape without him knowing going up in smoke. She wanted him to know. She wanted him to share the guilt and the pain. She didn’t want it all for herself. She didn’t think she could bear it.

She didn’t hear him move, or stir, or even breathe. She shut herself up forcefully and let all her soul out through her eyes.

She had no idea how he’d done it. Gotten out of bed silently, walked up to her silently, knelt on the floor so silently and ever so gently placed a hand on her shoulder, over her own. Her first instinct told her that she’d been caught. Someone had seen her and told the whole universe what a whore she was. She jolted at his touch but then stilled when she saw it was him. His hair was all messed up from the sex and his cheeks were flustered. He was wearing the sheets around his waist and his face was a combination of so many emotions: regret, fear, concern.

She knew words were going to make things worse. She didn’t want things any worse than they already were. She wanted to leave, but she wanted him to hold her. She wanted to cry alone, but she wanted him to hear. She didn’t know what she wanted.

“I’m sorry” he whispered, softly, carefully, fearing her reaction. All she could do was nod while hundreds of responses echoed in her mind to his two little words: Me too…You should be…Why?

He leaned down and gently kissed the crown of her head and held her to him. She tucked her head under his chin and felt his teardrops on her hair. He murmured something into her hair but she didn’t hear. She tightened the bear hug she had her chest in. She was scared to hear what he had to say. And anyway, it wouldn’t heal her smashed heart.