November came in dry. Harmattan dust on everything. My throat was always a little scratchy and my lips were always a little cracked. It matched how I felt inside.

The doors were closed. The files were gone. The numbers were blocked.

So why did I still feel guilty?

I brought it to therapy.

"I did the clean-up," I told Dr. Amina. "I told my family. I stopped hiding.

But I keep thinking about her. The 20-year-old who started the forum. The one who wrote the drafts.

I’m mad at her."

Dr. Amina didn’t write anything down.

"Mad about what?" She asked slowly. Like she was expecting me to blow up...