A few days had passed since that moment, what Akiva could only describe as an "almost." Trevor wasn't angry, only restless. "She's my girlfriend. Why can't I have her?" he had sighed, frustration heavy in his voice. They had shared kisses that lingered, touches that burned but when it came to going further, Akiva always froze. Always hesitated.
She told Diana about it one afternoon. Their friendship had thinned since Diana was busy drowning in Draken's world, but when Akiva spoke, Diana listened.
"Wait… you let him touch your boobs? Your ass?" Diana's eyes widened.
Akiva only shrugged.
Diana shook her head. "Draken and I don't even do half of that. And fingering can disvirgin you, you know. I'm waiting till marriage." Her voice softened, but her eyes were sharp. "But it's your body. Do what you feel is right."
That night Akiva lay awake, thoughts pulling her in two directions—guilt whispering on one side, defiance on the other. Is it really that big a sin? she wondered. A scripture stirred at the edges of her mind, faint, half-forgotten: "All things are lawful for me, but not all things are beneficial…" She turned her face to the wall, trying to silence it.
Valentine's Day neared. Diana dragged her across the street to a small shop, excited about strawberry-flavored treats for Draken. Akiva scanned the shelves, her eyes catching a bright red pack.
"Oooh, this one! Strawberry flavor, it's sweet, right?" she said.
Diana blinked once, then burst into laughter. "Girl, that's a condom!"
Heat flamed in Akiva's cheeks as others giggled. She forced a laugh too, though her insides burned. Eighteen years old and still this clueless. Shame clung to her, though she tried to laugh it off.
Later, Trevor called. "What do you want for Valentine's?"
"Chicken and chips," Akiva answered quickly. Not roses. Not chocolate. Just that simple meal all the popular girls flaunted like a crown.
The next day after school, Trevor disappeared to buy it. Akiva's anxiety clawed her mother had warned her not to be late. But she waited. Diana stayed too, so Akiva wouldn't walk home alone. Finally, Trevor appeared, sweaty and triumphant, holding out a paper bag. To anyone else it was cheap food. To Akiva, it was everything. A sign that she was worth something. She smiled, whispering, "You'll get your gift tomorrow."
That night, home was as cruel as ever. Her mother's voice was thunder. "Why haven't you bathed before washing plates? Stupid. Worthless. Disgusting." Her siblings laughed along. Akiva kept her head low, silent. But in her chest there was a strange defiance. For once, her mother's words couldn't cut as deep Trevor's simple offering had dulled their blade.
Later, while massaging her mother's legs, her cheeks betrayed her with a smile.
"What are you smiling at? Idiot girl," her mother hissed.
Akiva shook her head. Nothing. She said nothing.
The next morning she left early, chores done like clockwork. Walking to school was freedom her mother's car was faster, but every ride was another wound. The walk gave her breath.
At school, whispers followed her. Trevor bought her chicken and chips. Girls who once ignored her now stared. Diana grinned. "Girl, you're famous."
Akiva soaked it in. For one day, she wasn't invisible.
At break time, Trevor found her. His hand rested on her waist, his breath warm against her ear. "Can we…?"
She nodded. No hesitation.
They slipped into the girls' toilet, door locked, giggles muffled. Trevor kissed her lips, her neck, his hands moving fast.
"Can I go in?" he whispered.
Her breath caught. She nodded again.
He tied her wrists with her school tie her idea. She thought it would make her brave. Instead, the fabric burned against her skin. His finger pressed in—slow, then faster. Pain bloomed sharp, but pain was no stranger. Pain had been her mother's voice, her home. So she let him.
Her jaw tightened. She swallowed her cries. When she thought she couldn't bear it anymore, he stopped. They dressed quickly. He left with a grin, victory in his stride.
Akiva stayed behind, wrists marked red where the tie had bound her. They looked less like threads of love and more like shackles. Knees pulled close, body trembling, she felt emptied. Hollow.
And then
A whisper. Not Trevor's. Not mother's. But deep within.
"Do you not know that your body is the temple of the Spirit?"
Akiva froze. The words burned through her bones. Another voice followed, solemn, steady as prophecy:
"Do not give what is holy to dogs, nor cast your pearls before swine."
Tears welled. Not only from pain, but from the weight of something eternal pressing against her soul. She pressed her palms to her ears, but the whispers clung, echoing, unrelenting.
Trevor had left. Mother's voice was far away. But these words remained.
And in the silence of the night, Akiva knew:
The gift had been given. But in its giving, something eternal had been lost.