When Frank and I started dating, he tried to get intimate with me twice, but I refused both times. He kept trying as the weeks went by, and I kept saying no. One day, we finally had a conversation about it.

"Why don't you want to get intimate with me? Don't you like me?" he asked.

"I like you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have said yes to you," I replied.

"So why won't you let me?"

"Because I'm keeping myself for the one who will marry me in the future."

He didn’t like my response—I could tell from the way his mood shifted. His frustration grew with every rejection, and there were times I thought he would break up with me. But then, out of nowhere, he asked us to get married.

It felt strange because, up until that moment, he hadn’t seemed happy in our relationship. But I loved him, and the thought of marriage made me happy. Everything happened so fast—before I knew it, we had done the traditional marriage rites and moved in together. The white wedding never came.

And then, on our wedding night, I realized something: maybe Frank had never loved me at all.

I was a virgin, but he didn’t take his time with me. He didn’t care that I was in pain. He didn’t comfort me, didn’t try to make it special. He got what he wanted and that was it.

A week into the marriage, things got worse. He started to mistreat me. He wouldn't let me talk to my friends. He wouldn't talk to me either. When he was angry, he would hit me. He controlled every part of my life—seizing my belongings, stopping me from working, making sure I had no independence.

I endured it until I couldn’t anymore. I asked for a divorce, told him I would return his dowry.

But he just looked at me and said, "I only performed the rites because of sex. You said you were saving yourself for your husband, but I wanted sex, so I married you."

That was when I knew. I had never been his choice—I had only been his convenience.

It all began to make sense—why our traditional marriage ceremony had felt so rushed, why the white wedding he promised never happened. But what I couldn't understand was why he would go to such lengths just to get into my pants.

I returned his drinks and ended the marriage, but he didn’t even care. He didn’t fight for me, didn’t try to explain—he just let me go, as if I had never mattered.

The whole thing traumatized me. I still haven’t recovered. I still find myself questioning every man who approaches me, wondering if they have ulterior motives. The pain still lingers, and I haven’t moved past it.

But I know I will get better. I don’t know if I’ll ever completely get over it, but even if I don’t, I’ll be fine.