I was around 8 or 9 years old.
We went to visit my grandmother's house. I had fun, though I liked my grandfather's house more. My mother wanted to go since we lived in Dhaka. My father wouldn't leave me alone, so my mother always took me with her.
One day, we went to a neighbor's house—my mother, my sister, my aunt, and I. There was a young man there named Sakib. The way he looked at me made me feel uneasy.
His mother said, "Stay here, dear," just like adults often say to children. I obeyed.
I was small, soft, and carefree. Everyone adored me.
Then his mother went outside. I was alone in the room with Sakib. He was lying down, staring at me in a way that felt wrong. Then he said, "Jaima, come here."
I slowly moved, unsure of what to do. Music was playing, and he turned up the volume.
He held both of my hands and tried to kiss me.
I didn't know what to say, but I felt uncomfortable.
Finally, I ran away as fast as I could.