At some point I decided, because the world told me,
That what I went through doesn't count.

There I was,
A little freshman.
A little freshman who hated to be touched.

There he was,
In my class,
The boy who never shut up,
Who claimed he asked me to homecoming,
Who I loathed and who made me so uncomfortable.

Then there we were,
Somehow seated next to each other,
And not friends,
Mearly civil.

But none of that makes it ok.
None of that makes ok what he did.

I remember walking into the classroom and out of nowhere his body,
his behind slammed into my side with a proclamation of
BOOTY BUMP.

I froze.

He touched me.
Without permission.
With his behind.

I had never even held hands with a boy let alone had someone touch me like that.

And that wasn't the last time.

It was the cast party for the first full show I'd ever done.
I went over,
As I had with everyone to talk to a boy I'd barely spoken to all summer to get his signature on my cast photo as I had with everyone else.

He signed it and suddenly gave me a hug.

I gave an awkward one armed hug back and let go.
But he held me trapped still,
Pulling the top of me close against him crushing my breasts.

Later I found out it wasn't just me.

He'd done it to other girls.

But still,
It didn't seem to matter.

Both events were so small,
So insignificant.

So insignificant compared to all the stories of #metoo I read.
How could what I've been through count?

So I stayed silent.

But no longer.