I was brought back to that dreadful memory from years ago—my mother's new boyfriend had assaulted and filmed me. In my despair, I had even considered ending my life.
At the time, Brandon, my deskmate, found out about it. He stormed into my house, beat up the man, and retrieved the video.
He held me tightly and repeatedly said, "Serena, don’t be afraid. This wasn’t your fault."
"I promise you, as long as I’m here, I won’t let anyone hurt you."
Looking back now, I realize the person who hurt me the most during our seven-year relationship had always been him.
Every time we had a conflict, he would bring up that incident in front of others, using it to humiliate me repeatedly.
He tore open my bleeding wounds, exposing them to everyone, until I broke down in tears, begging and apologizing at his feet.
Only then would he, standing high above me, condescend to "forgive" me.
To the people around us, Brandon appeared deeply devoted and loving. But they didn’t see how many nights I spent crying myself to sleep in silence.
And that humiliating video—he never deleted it.