The Permission They Never Asked For

I was sixteen when I first understood the power of physical touch—not the gentle, comforting kind, but the kind that lingers like a stain.

Before, I was invisible. A shadow in the hallway, a whisper in a crowded room. My body was a blank canvas, unremarkable, unnoticed. But then, something shifted. My hips widened, my waist curved, and my chest swelled until I could no longer hide beneath loose shirts.

The first time a hand brushed against me—really brushed against me—was in the school corridor. A boy I barely knew "accidentally" grazed my chest as he passed, his fingers lingering just a second too long. His friends laughed. My face burned. He didn’t even look back.

After that, the touches came more frequently. A squeeze of my waist from behind, a "playful" tug at my sweater, fingers "slipping" as they handed me a pencil. Each time, I froze. Each time, they smiled like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

The Unwanted Gift

My body had become public property. Strangers felt entitled to it, friends joked about it, and boys treated it like a prize they hadn’t earned but still wanted to claim. I tried shrinking again—wearing baggy clothes, slouching, crossing my arms—but it didn’t matter. The touches kept coming.

The worst part? I started to believe I deserved it.

Maybe if I hadn’t worn that fitted shirt.

Maybe if I hadn’t laughed too loud.

Maybe if I hadn’t existed so visibly.

The Breaking Point

It happened at a party. A boy—older, with rough hands and beer on his breath—pulled me into a dark corner. His grip was too tight, his words too sweet.

"You’ve been asking for this," he murmured, his fingers digging into my skin.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t fight. I just went still, like I always did, waiting for it to be over.

But then—

A voice. A shove. A curse.

Someone had seen. Someone had stopped it.

For the first time, I realized: I didn’t have to accept this.

Taking Back Control

After that night, I stopped apologizing for my body. I stopped letting hands roam without consequence. The next time a stranger "accidentally" brushed against me, I didn’t flinch—I turned and stared until they were the ones who looked away.

Physical touch isn’t inherently good or bad. It’s about power. And for too long, I let others hold that power over me.

Now? I decide who gets to touch me. I decide what I allow.

And if they don’t like it?

They can keep their hands to themselves.