A beat. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Another moment passed. “What… who?” He hesitated, “Is that, is it okay to ask?” I nod. “It’s okay now, I think,” I whisper. “When?” “I was a lot younger, a neighbor… he was,” I gulped, “he was my only friend,” I looked away from him. The shame building up is trying to force its way out. The lump in my throat does not allow me to continue. “Was he older?” “No, I mean, just a bit. A year older, maybe. We were in the same school,” I said. “Your parents?” “They didn’t believe me when I told them, my mom brushed it off.” He winced at this. The hurt I felt when my own mom didn’t believe me is still fresh in my mind. “And Augustus, of course, he doesn’t care about anyone but himself,” I said. He clenched his fist. “It was just the one time,” I tried to justify. Make light of the situation, perhaps. So that I don’t inconvenience anyone because of my experience. He doesn’t respond. The visible anger on his face makes me
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