Witch, its been rough

Alright, my little coven of chaos—grab your tea, your crystals, and maybe a black cat or two, because this tale comes with a warning. It’s not about what did happen—it’s about the moment something almost did. Close enough to make my bones rattle and my soul age about ten years in a single afternoon.

This is a story I’ve only ever told two people, and now I’m telling the internet. Bold move, right? Classic Libra.

Let’s go back. Picture a 12-year-old me: band geek, athlete, rule-follower with just enough sass to sneak out of trouble. I had a friend who lived right around the corner, and if I made it home before dark, my mom let me roam free. Which, in my house, was the equivalent of being knighted.

Summers were glorious—chlorine-scented skin, tangled hair, and pretending we were mermaids, witches, or whatever else fit the mood. Until, one day, the vibes shifted. You know when something just feels off? Like your gut casts a spell of “Nope” before your brain catches up?

Yeah. That.

At first, it was nothing. Just her dad looking out the window. Parents do that, I told myself. They like to check their spawn haven’t drowned or summoned Satan in the deep end. But then I saw it. The way he watched me. Not her. Me. I brushed it off like the good overthinking Libra I am. “It’s probably nothing,” I told myself.

Except it kept happening.

And then, one afternoon, he wasn’t just lurking. He was performing. Pants down, hands busy, lurking like some B-movie ghoul in a suburban horror flick. I thought I was hallucinating. Maybe too much sun. Not enough snacks. Seeing things. Ghosts, perhaps? 

My friend stepped away to the bathroom and he started walking toward me—toward me—like some twisted curse come to life. I pulled out my phone and pretended to text. (Shoutout to that cheap Nokia brick that probably saved my soul.)

He stood there. Dropped his pants. Told me to look. I didn’t. I stayed frozen, locked in place like a doll at the mercy of something rotten.

Then… salvation. The sacred sound of a toilet flush. A door creak. The whisper of zipper teeth being tamed. And just like that—poof!—he was gone. No smoke. No fire. Just fear and silence. I survived the moment. Barely.

The only thing that saved me? A flush. A literal toilet flush. Sounds mundane, I know, but it was the sound that signaled it was over. That I could breathe again. That I could get out.

I never told my friend. I just stopped going to her house. I made up excuses. I even blamed her, said she was ditching me for boys and I wasn’t cool with that. Which, okay, was technically true, but not the real reason. I didn’t have the words for the real reason. I only had fear.

Now, as an adult, I wonder: Did anyone else notice? Did anything worse happen to anyone else? Could I have stopped it if I’d spoken up?

These are the kinds of questions that haunt you.

But this—this is me finally speaking up. Finally saying: something was wrong. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t imagining it. And if anything like this has ever happened to you—you weren’t either.

Maybe your voice was quiet. Maybe it never left your lips at all. That doesn’t make your truth any less real. Or your survival any less valid.

So to anyone reading this who’s carrying a story they were never allowed to say out loud: I see you. You’re still standing. And whether you told someone or held it all in, that resilience? That’s real magic.

Speak your truth when you’re ready. Light a candle. Burn the shame. And remember—monsters hate when you turn on the light.