The Ones Who Didn’t See - Part 1

Chapter 1: The House That Felt Safer

A quiet place, my neighbour’s house felt like an escape, a little pocket of quiet compared to the chaos at home. My friend lived just a few houses away and in my young mind, proximity meant safety. I would sit at her family’s table, building Lego houses piece by piece, letting my hands work quietly while my mind tried to settle.

She was there, but not with me. She’d be at the computer, laughing with school friends online, her attention absorbed in her own world. Maybe that was normal for her after all, she didn’t know what I was hiding from. She didn’t know why I didn’t want to go home. She didn’t ask why I needed to be somewhere else, away from the hurt.

She didn’t ask why I always showed up after school. 
Didn’t ask why I stayed until dinner. 
Didn’t ask why I never wanted to go home, and I didn’t tell her.

I wasn’t looking for deep conversation or for her to fix anything. But some part of me hoped she might notice the way I lingered at that table, the way I stretched out the time it took to click pieces together, as though I could build something stronger than the life I had. Instead, I existed on the edges of her world, close enough to hear her laugh but far enough away to stay invisible.

Because I had learned early:

If you want to survive in unsafe places, you stay small. 
You don’t ask for attention. 
You find something to keep your hands busy and your heart quiet.

It felt safe for a while. At least, safer than home. But safety can be a fragile illusion, and I was about to learn just how quickly it can crack.

Chapter 2 – The Moment Safety Turned

But safety is a tricky thing. It can turn on you without warning.

It started small, a lingering look that made my skin prickle, a too-close touch that didn’t match the tone of the room. My mind wanted to brush it off; to convince myself I was imagining it. I wanted to keep believing I was safe, to hold on to the illusion I had built at that kitchen table. But my body knew better. My stomach tightened, my chest grew heavy, and my instincts screamed that something was wrong.

The moment it crossed the line, my world shifted. That false sense of security shattered instantly, replaced by confusion and a shame I couldn’t name yet. I didn’t even have the language to explain what had happened, not in a way that made sense to a child. But I knew. I knew in my bones it wasn’t right. I knew it would change me. And I knew that the house I thought was my escape had just become another place I’d have to survive.

Chapter 3 – The Night I Froze

By the time I reached about 10 to 11 years of age. I had grown close to a friend who, like me, carried the quiet weight of a broken home. She had an alcoholic father, and in her, I felt a kind of unspoken understanding, a recognition that we were both navigating lives where safety wasn’t guaranteed. We laughed at school, shared secrets, and found a strange comfort in knowing neither of us had the perfect family.

One night, I stayed over at her house. I can still see it if I close my eyes. The smell of old carpet, the faint hum of the fridge down the hall, the narrow bedroom with the blue metal bunk beds pushed up against the wall. I slept on the single bed in-front of her, as she slept on the bottom bunk. That night should have been like any other sleepover. The innocent whispers until we got tired, shared snacks, drifting into the comfort of friendship. But it wasn’t.

I woke to the smell of VB beer, sharp and sour, hanging in the air before I even opened my eyes. Then I felt him, her father climbing into the bed beside me. My body went cold instantly. Goosebumps rose on my skin; my breath caught in my throat. I froze. Completely. It was the first time in my life I understood what it meant to be paralysed by fear. His hands touched me, deliberate and unwanted. My mind screamed move, but my body wouldn’t obey.

I stared up at the mattress directly in-front of me, begging my friend to look at me, hoping she would wake up. She didn’t. When I tried to shift away, his hand gripped me and pulled me back. I wanted to disappear, to sink into the mattress and never be found. The walls felt closer. The air felt heavier. Time slowed to something unbearable.

I stayed frozen until daylight. When morning came, I didn’t tell her what had happened. I didn’t tell anyone. I just ran out of her house, out of that street, out of the possibility of ever going back. I never stepped foot in that home again. But the truth is, a part of me never left that room. A part of me is still there, staring at the blue metal bunk bed, waiting for someone to wake up and save me. Because in that moment, something inside me cracked open and I knew no one was coming to save me.

Chapter 4 – Silence That Stuck

After that night, the world looked different.

The walk home from her house felt longer, heavier, as if every step was weighed down by a secret, I didn’t have the language to tell. I didn’t understand all the details of what had happened, not in the way adults might but I knew it was wrong. I knew it had taken something from me.

I remember getting home and feeling like my skin didn’t fit right. Like everyone could see it on me, even though no one said a word. I kept replaying the smell of beer, the weight of his body beside me, the grip of his hand when I tried to move. The image of the blue bunk bed seared into my mind. But I said nothing. My voice stayed trapped in my throat because somewhere deep down, I believed no one would believe me.

At ten years old, I already knew what it felt like to be dismissed. To have my feelings brushed off as exaggeration or lies. I imagined the looks I’d get if I told the truth, followed by the raised eyebrows, the accusations of making trouble, the questions about what I’d done to “cause it.” So, I swallowed it. Just like I had swallowed so many other hurts before.

But swallowing it didn’t make it go away. It sat in me like a stone, heavy and unmoving. I avoided that street entirely, crossing to the other side if I even came close. I didn’t stop talking to her at school, but I did distance myself, not because she had done anything wrong, but because she was tied to the memory I couldn’t bear to touch. I hated myself for that, for letting the man who hurt me also steal a friendship. When she moved away so did my fears and I just kept another pebble and secret to myself to protect someone else.

The silence became part of me. It didn’t just keep me from speaking it also changed the way I moved in the world. I started scanning every room, gauging who was safe and who wasn’t. I learned to read people down to the littlest detail, like survival depended on it, well because it did.

I didn’t tell my parents. I didn’t tell a teacher. I didn’t tell a soul. So, the moment that shattered my safety became a private storm, locked inside me for years. The waves still crashed, but only I could hear them.