There was a piano in the corner of the room, its keys soft beneath my fingers as I pressed them one by one, over and over. Each note a distraction, a way to drown out the wine he kept pouring, the way his clothes began to slip from his body without any real invitation. I didn’t want to be there. Not really.

It started much earlier, in a crowded space with flashing lights and music too loud to hear anything but the beat. His hand found its way to me, too soon, too fast, gripping me in a place that should have remained untouched. I pulled away. "You know what you’re doing in those trousers," he said, as though the fabric had given permission, as though my discomfort was irrelevant. He stopped, but the damage was done.

There’s a silence that falls when you don’t know how to escape. A heaviness. Later, walking home with no way out, no taxi, just the promise of a safe place to stay. “Platonically,” he said, like it was an afterthought. I should have listened to the unease inside me when he led me to his room, when I sat at his piano, hoping the music would protect me, would make me invisible. But I wasn’t invisible. I was very much seen.

It’s funny how people talk about consent like it’s this simple thing, like a “yes” or a “no” should be enough to stop someone. But when the words come out, and they’re ignored—what then? He was too horny for me. As though that was a reason. As though his desire had more weight than my words. My body became a thing, a vessel for his needs.

I stayed on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, hoping the distance would mean something. Hoping the way I didn’t respond to his touch, his breath on my skin, would make him stop. But in his world, silence wasn’t enough.

Hookup culture tells us that these things happen, that casual touch and blurred lines are part of the game. That as men, especially as men curious about our sexuality, we’re expected to navigate these moments with ease, with casual indifference. But no one tells you what to do when indifference turns to discomfort, and discomfort turns to dread.

He told me the reason I didn’t finish was the shape of my body. As though that was a truth, as though he knew something about me that I didn’t. It wasn’t the shape of my body; it was the shape of the moment—sharp, painful, wrong. I cried myself to sleep that night, not because of what happened, but because I hadn’t been able to stop it.

The next morning, the light wasn’t any softer. His hands found my bruised skin again, as though the night hadn’t ended, as though consent was still irrelevant. I pulled away, but the marks stayed. They stayed for weeks. Not just on my body, but in my mind.

I wish someone had told me that consent is more than a word, more than a moment. It’s a constant choice, an ongoing respect. It’s something that should never be overshadowed by desire, or drowned out by the silence of a piano.