I learned silence early.
It was praised as maturity.
As grace.
As being “a good girl.”
Don’t make a scene.
Don’t ruin his future.
Think about your name.
So when it happened
I did what good girls do
I went still.
Left my body
like a light switched off
in a room no one planned to enter.
They call it freezing.
They never call it surviving.
It wasn’t a stranger.
It was someone trusted.
And somehow
that made it my responsibility.
Because boys are “promising.”
Girls are “careful.”
Boys make mistakes.
Girls become them.
If he slips,
he is young.
If I speak,
I am damaged.
My fault.
My fault.
My fault.
Because reputation sticks to women
like smoke.
Because honour is stored
in our skin
and nowhere else.
Because a man’s future
is considered fragile
and a woman’s body
is considered collateral.
So we shrink.
We soften the story.
We carry it quietly
so everyone else can stay comfortable.
But I am done
being the proof
of someone else’s innocence.
Honour that survives
only when I stay silent
is not honour.
It is fear
with a family name.
I did not consent to the silence.
I did not consent.
And I refuse to live
as the cautionary tale
that protects him.
My body is not a lesson.
My voice is not a threat.
If the truth ruins something,
let it.
By Iqra
