CHAPTER FIVE: A FOOL FOR LOVE

Excitement bubbled in my chest as I made my way to his house. I trusted him. He was my friend, my comfort in this unfamiliar world.

The moment I arrived, he welcomed me warmly. Everything felt normal.

He handed me his phone. "Watch some movies," he said.

I relaxed, sinking into the couch, completely engrossed in the screen.

Then he brought me a drink.

I sipped, my eyes still glued to the movie, unaware of what was coming.

Then—his hands.

At first, it was gentle. A touch on my arm, a slight brush against my skin. But then, he grabbed my breast.

Shock.

I turned to him, eyes wide.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

He smirked. "We're going to practice everything we talked about."

My heart pounded.

"No…" I started, my voice shaking. "I'm a virgin."

He didn't care.

His hands became rougher, his grip tighter. He silenced my protests, his strength overpowering mine. I tried to push him away, but he was determined.

My body froze.

I felt his lips, his touch, his weight pressing down on me.

Pain.

Tears welled in my eyes.

I screamed.

"Stop! Please, I beg you!"

But he didn't stop. He didn't care.

He forced himself inside me, tearing away the innocence I had once protected.

Blood. Pain. Betrayal.

When it was over, I lay there, broken, humiliated, drowning in shame.

I gathered my clothes, my hands trembling, my body sore. As I stumbled out of his house, only one thought filled my mind.

"What have I done?"

The morning after my first mistake, I returned to my lodge, silent and numb. My roommate noticed my withdrawn demeanor and asked, "Are you okay?"

I forced a smile. "Yes."

She didn't believe me, but I had mastered the art of secrecy. My aunt's cruelty had taught me that sharing my pain only invited more suffering.

Days passed, and when my period finally arrived, I felt a sense of relief—I wasn't pregnant. That should have been my wake-up call, my chance to walk away from the toxic man who had taken my innocence. But instead, I stayed.

I kept visiting him, letting him use my body while I convinced myself it was love. Until one day, I decided not to go. That night, he messaged me:

"Seems like another man is having sex with you, right?"

His words stung. He didn't love me. I was just a toy to him—nothing more. He had never bought me anything, never done anything for me except call me when he wanted to satisfy himself.

That night, I cried bitterly.

"No man will ever have sex with me again until marriage," I swore to myself, sealing an oath I never knew would define my future.

The next day, I cut him off, warning him never to contact me again. He begged, trying to guilt-trip me. "How can I be the one who disvirgined you and let you go like this?"

Foolish me—I had a soft heart, too soft to resist his words.

I forgave him.

I visited him again.

But things had changed. Every time he tried to touch me, I cried. The pleasure I once forced myself to feel was gone. Sex became painful, unwanted. My body rejected what my heart once longed for. My oath had taken root.

Then, the rumors started.

"She's just one of his many girls. He sleeps with them and brags about it to his friends."

When I heard those words from a stranger's lips, my knees gave out beneath me. I cried—loud, raw, heartbroken. My body, my pride… wasted on a man who never cared.

I cut him off for good.

This time, I made a different oath.

"He will never make it in life."

Life went on.

I focused on my studies, determined to make my parents proud. My aunt and uncle never called, never checked on me. Only my best friend and my parents cared.

But even as I worked hard, my heart remained guarded. I avoided men, convinced that love only brought pain. What I didn't know was that someone—a man—was watching me, admiring me from afar.

In my loneliness, I turned to female friendships, believing they were safer. I befriended five girls from my lodge, and for the first time in a long while, I felt accepted. I laughed more, talked more, and soon, I became popular in my lodge.

The five girls were different—two were older than me, three were younger, but all were bold, fearless Gen Z baddies. Their confidence made me feel powerful. I started seeing the world differently, my once-innocent mind opening up to new experiences.

Then, he came.

A gentle, soft-spoken man.

He wanted a relationship, but I rejected him several times. He even offered money for sex, which disgusted me.

Until the day he packed out of our lodge.

I helped him move, and in return, he showered me with gifts—television, fan, plates, perfumes, creams… so much more than I expected.

My heart wavered.

A friend of mine said, "Accept him. He truly loves you. Why don't you give love a chance and stop suffering?"

I listened.

Not out of love, but out of pity.

I accepted

Dating him was different.

He sent me money, brought me food, visited me constantly, and tried his best to make me happy. But there was a problem—sex.

"You're not romantic," he complained. "You're too boring."

I couldn't help it. My past had scarred me. I no longer craved intimacy. I feared heartbreak more than anything.

But one day, I gave in.

I allowed him to have me.

At first, things seemed fine. But soon, I realized something about him—he was addicted to sex. And I? I hated it.

I tried to endure, but I wasn't a toy.

Our fights grew worse, and one night, after I refused his advances, he slapped me.

Hard.

Twice.

I had never been hit by a man before. The pain wasn't just physical—it was emotional, mental.

I ran to my friend's room, crying in her arms. That night, I made another decision.

"This relationship is over."