High school is often described as a fleeting chapter of life, a collection of four years that supposedly fades into the background as adulthood takes over. But for those of us who spent those years in the crosshairs of a predator, the memories do not simply evaporate. They linger in the subconscious like a low-frequency hum, ready to amplify at the slightest trigger. For three years, the soundtrack of my life was the sharp click of high-fashion heels on linoleum and the echoing laughter of a cafeteria that felt more like a Roman Coliseum. My name is Maya, and for...
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