The sweltering heat pierced through my skin as I walked down the sandy walkway. My small feet in the small, polished school shoes had been covered with dust by then. Around me, the book fair buzzed with life- laughter, murmurs and occasional callouts by vendors trying to draw in a crowd.

"Why are you wearing that sweater in this weather?" my mom questioned, her tone etched with irritation.

I didn't answer. I never liked answering questions that didn't feel worth it. Besides, I knew what would come next—her irritation, her insistence that I take it off. It was easier to resort to silence. She wouldn't ever ask me why. It helped me feel protected-less exposed, less vulnurable. It didn't matter whether the sun was merciless or the air was thick and humid, I wouldn't take that off.

Sighing, she led the way through stalls as I trailed behind her. 

My thoughts seemed to drift as she was explaining some historical artifacts, as if I would be interested. Looking aside seemed like a better option. My thoughts dissolved with the surroundings; the bustles now blurred. I came to my senses when my back scathed with something unfamiliar. A rough bulge. The 8-year-old me could not figure out what that was. I tilted my head slightly. It happened to be a tall man, probably twice my height. Nervous, I moved forward, my legs trembling. I got closer to mom, who was standing just a few feet away.

Or miles... So it felt like.

I couldn't speak one word. Felt like someone zipped my mouth. He got closer. I looked again. I wished for her to turn around, to look at me, to notice the uneasiness carved on my face. But she didn't.

I stopped breathing when I felt two hands. Unfamiliar. Intrusive. They slid over my chest, pressing firmly against me. My breath hitched. My heart thumping, not just by fear but by the weight of confusion. What was happening? I wanted to scream, but my voice was trapped in my throat. My small hands clenched into fists, but I couldn't move. He kept running his hands over them. I wanted to call to my mom, but I also didn't want to cause a scene. I felt my face burn from a strange, unfamiliar shame. The squeezes got a little stronger. The fabric of my sweater did little to help, and my breasts hadn't fully grown yet...but still...

 

I forced myself to move. My trembling hands pushed his away, a feeble act of defiance. I looked up at him, my eyes burning with hatred and fear. His face was blank, his eyes dark and unreadable. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. The smirk tugging at the corner of his lips told me everything.  I just felt embarrassed. He stopped. I was relieved. I went forward and stood beside mom, inching closer. 

"Let's go to another stall." I stuttered with a shaky voice. 

She glanced at me, surprised by my sudden change of mind. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I lied, avoiding her frowned and confused look.

Shrugging, she led the way to another stall, already being distracted by the displays.

But the man followed too. Why would he follow me when my mom was right Infront of me? My mind began to puzzle. This time, he didn't wait. His hands were on me again, his fingers pressing in harder this time, cupping my ungrown breasts. I hated that mom wouldn't look at me. Then again... I was the one who kept shut. I wanted to disappear, to melt into the crowd and escape his grasp.

But I couldn't.

His hand slid lower, over the back of my skirt. I flinched. My vision blurred with tears I refused to let fall. The lump in my throat grew larger, choking me. I bit my lips till I tasted the salty *taste of blood.  I wanted to kick him but realized it wouldn't help. I can't out strengthen him. 

I wanted to tell my mother. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs. But shame held me back. What if people stared? What if they blamed me? *I was trapped in my thoughts

The world around me seemed to move in slow motion. The bustling crowd, the vibrant stalls, the distant laughter—it all felt like a cruel joke.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. I couldn't let him win. I couldn't let him think I was powerless.

I turned sharply, my eyes locking onto his. "Stop," I shrieked in disgust, my voice trembling but firm.

He froze, startled by my sudden spite. For a moment, I thought I had scared him off. But then, his smirk returned, more sinister than before. I bolted, moving through the crowd, my small feet pounding against the ground. My mother called after me, her voice distant and confused, but I didn't stop until I thought he wasn't there anymore.

I thought I was safe.

But that was just a deceptive thought.

Then I felt his hand again—this time on my wrist. He yanked me back with a force that made me stumble, my wrist twisting painfully in his grip.

"Where are you going?" he hissed, his voice low.

"Let me go!" I cried, trembling.

He didn't. Instead, he pulled me closer, his other hand gripping my shoulder.

Before I could react, his hand slid under my skirt.

I froze, my mind went blank. His fingers brushed against my thigh, moving upward with a sickening confidence.

"No," I whispered, my voice breaking, but he didn't stop.

His hand reached higher, slipping over the thin fabric of my panties.

I squeezed my legs together, desperate to block his hand, but he forced them apart with his knee, his strength overpowering mine.

"Stop struggling," he growled, his voice cold and commanding.

His hand pressed firmly against me, his fingers tracing the outline of my body through the thin fabric. My chest tightened with panic, my breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.

I felt his other hand grab my chest again, squeezing harder this time. The dual assault felt too overwhelming, his touch invasive and violating.

I pushed at his arm, tears streaming down my face, but he didn't yield. My small hands were no match for his strength.

"Please," I whimpered, my voice barely audible.

He chuckled, like a predator looming over for its pray that sent chills down my spine.

I tugged at my skirt, desperate to cover myself, but his hand stayed firm, his fingers pressing against my skin through my panties, exploring through while pressing harder.

My mind raced, a storm of fear, shame, and helplessness. I wanted to scream, to cry out for help, but the lump in my throat was too big, my voice strangled by terror.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I stomped on his foot as hard as I could.

He let out a grunt, his grip loosening just enough for me to pull away. I ran, my legs trembling beneath me, my wrist throbbing with pain.

But he caught me again, pulling me towards him. I fet his bulge as he groped, sensing it getting harder. He had one of his hands covering my mouth, the other one *playing around.

I exhaled shakily, my entire body trembling. 

As we moved to another stall, I felt it again—that suffocating presence. I turned my head slightly, and there he was, watching me from a distance.

My heart sank. He wasn't done.

I tugged at my mother's arm. "Let's leave," I said urgently.

She frowned. "We just got here."

"Please," I begged, my voice breaking.

She hesitated but nodded, sensing my urgency.

We hurried toward the exit, but I could feel his eyes on me. I glanced over my shoulder, and there he was, his gaze locked onto mine.

He didn't care about the crowd, didn't care that my mother was right there. 

As we stepped outside, the heat hit me like a wave, but it was nothing compared to the cold dread that gripped me.

I thought it was over. I thought I was safe. Again.

But as we walked to the car, I noticed something that made my blood run cold.

He was still following us.