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TW; recollection of rape, sexual assault. these themes may be continuous throughout the story - please be aware, and do not read any further if these topics are triggering for you. i love you.

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He's staring. She can feel it - his eyes on her face as her own eyes remain low; on her lap, as she tries to scrape up some kind of idea of where to begin. His hand is itching to reach out to her - perhaps reassure some of her obvious worry away. But he's nervous, too. He has no idea what she's about to tell him, but he knows it's difficult - it's evident in the way her lips are pressed together and her eyebrows are furrowed, her fingers slightly shaky as she reaches to push a stray curl back and tuck it behind her ear.

She hadn't planned to tell him. She's aware she'd have to tell him eventually, if she wants things to move any further - since this is the one; the one thing stopping her from going forward.

"Soph.." She's surprised when he breaks the silence. Looking up from her lap, she allows their eyes to meet - his green irises burning into hers, as her lips purse slightly in reluctance. "You don't owe me anything.. we can just forget this whole thing, yeah? Start work on the project-"

"No, it's okay," she interrupts, voice dropping to a near-whisper, "I'm sorry. This is harder than I thought it'd be."

"Take your time," he says gently, forcing the second half of the sentence out with as little shaking as he can manage, "I-I don't know if it means anything, but I'm here. I'm right here with you, and it doesn't matter if you tell me now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, or a week, or a month," he pauses, silencing his rambling, "you don't have to tell me at all, is what I'm trying to say."

Another moment or two passes, before Sophie takes a sharp inhale, exhaling deeply to follow. Her eyes drift from Harry for a mere second, before they fall back onto him, and she nods slowly to herself.

"It started at the end of my sophomore year in high school," she swallows, "I didn't have any friends - the high school I was going to just wasn't working out, and I moved to the local one. It was your stereotypical 'new kid' story - everyone just seemed to hate me, and I didn't fit in anywhere. I just liked to paint, and that was all."

Harry can't help but think of how much he relates to those very few sentences. Unable to put himself into a category; to confine himself to a societal box for so long, and having the piss taken out of him for it mercilessly. Photography was the only thing that made sense throughout his traumatic years of high school.

"I met Elijah on a Wednesday," her lip falls between her teeth, as if it's painful to continue, as she looks back at Harry. "I bumped into him in the library.. and I remember thinking it was so strange because I'd never seen him there before. And he was so cool, and collected, and it turned out he was there to find a book for homework, or something. We got talking, and I'd.." she trails off, taking a deep breath, "nobody had ever paid attention to me before like he did. I guess that's what made it so easy for him.."

Harry wants to interrupt - diligently, as he watches her eyes brim with tears - but he stays quiet. He's never seen her lack so much confidence; as vulnerable as she is in that moment, and all he wants to do is wind his arms around her and tell her not to continue if it'll hurt to.

"We'd been together for two months the first time he tried to force himself on me," Sophie begins, and Harry's eyebrows furrow, "we were just.. kissing. Innocently, because that was all I wanted. He kept trying to put his hand between my legs and even when I told him no.." she pauses, eyes darting sideways for a second, "he did it anyway. Just kept.. touching me.. when I was begging him not to, because I just wasn't ready."

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