Friends

Chapter 19

Jasmine's POV:

"Be honest with me right now. This is a safe space," Marc says, his voice steady but calm. "I'm not here to judge you or make you feel less than. This is our time to be vulnerable and truthful with each other. Did you tell your therapist that he felt entitled to sex and guilted you into it after comforting you?"

My throat tightens as his words sink in, and I can feel my tears threatening to spill. Why does it feel like he's attacking me? His gaze weighs heavy on me, but I can't meet his eyes. I stare at the floor, my vision blurring as I blink back tears.

"He didn't guilt me into sex," I manage to whisper, my voice trembling. "I wanted it." The words taste bitter as they leave my mouth, and I lose the battle to hold back my tears.

Before I can process anything, I feel Marc's arms wrap around me, pulling me into a firm, protective embrace. He holds me tightly, as though I might slip away if he lets go.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that," he says softly, his voice warm and steady above my head. "I can't imagine the kind of mental and emotional trauma you've endured to believe you wanted it. You're a victim, and I'm here for you. And I realize now that my tone has been too harsh—I haven't been treating you with the care you deserve. I'm so sorry."

His gentleness, the way he speaks with such kindness, cracks something deep inside me. I sob into his chest, my tears soaking his shirt, as the weight of it all crashes over me.

After a moment, he speaks again, his voice still soft, yet probing. "How many times did he ask you to have sex before you finally said yes?"

I pause, choking on my own sobs. "Eight times," I admit quietly, the words barely audible. "But it's not like that—"

Marc tightens his hold on me, his tone calm yet firm as he cuts through my excuses. "I think what happened," he begins gently, "is that you were honest with your therapist at first. She told you things about Kendrick you didn't want to hear, things that painted him in a bad light. So, you tried to defend him, but you couldn't. And when defending him wasn't enough, you started holding back the full truth—because if you told her everything, it would make him the villain."

His words hit me like a wave, but his voice remains steady, reassuring. "I care about you so much," he continues, "but healing can't happen if you don't admit that there's damage in the first place. I know defending him has become second nature after four years, but you owe it to yourself to be honest—with your therapist, and with yourself."

"It's more than that," I say, my voice trembling. "You and everyone else keep calling me stupid for believing in him—for focusing on the good. You and my therapist focus on things that... just... don't feel important to me. And it makes me feel even more stupid that everyone else knew I was in a toxic, abusive relationship—or whatever you want to call it. Everyone knew but me."

My throat tightens as the words spill out, my frustration and hurt bubbling to the surface. "How could it have been so obvious to everyone but me? I spent so much time telling myself, 'They don't understand—they weren't a part of it.' But the truth is, that was the only defense I had. For years. Against my mom, my friends, his friends—everyone who kept saying he was no good."

"Sweetie," Marc says gently, his voice soft, "no one was calling you stupid. They were calling the decision stupid. It wasn't about you."

"You don't understand," I reply, shaking my head. "He was the first guy who ever liked me—when I didn't even like me. We met when I was sixteen, maybe seventeen. Back then, I didn't have boobs or an ass. And growing up as a girl, that's what we're told our worth is tied to—our looks. If you have curves, if you have a butt, if you have boobs, you're seen as more feminine, more valuable.