Minor trigger warnings for harassment, self-harm, and disordered eating.
I didn’t know it was called solihiya, I recall now, thinking of the woven pattern that was an accent piece in that room. For all the memories I’ve both repressed and dwelled in for so long, that visual is constantly rather vivid to me. It’s strange—I was so enraptured by it, I could still remember standing still for a moment, letting my eyes try to figure out the intricate weave.
I didn’t know it then, but it was going to be the last innocent memory I was going to have for a while.
In that room, with the beautiful solihiya accents, a stranger took advantage of me—and failed.