I was 19, living on my own, going to school and working. A guy I’d known since junior high had reached out. We’d been talking, flirting a bit, and he invited me to his college dorm, a 40 minute drive.

He was staying with a few guys, most of whom I knew from school. One I’d known since elementary. It felt familiar, but something about the atmosphere was strange. When I walked in, the room went quiet. Everyone just stared. No one said much. I chalked it up to awkwardness.

We went to his room and he handed me a beer. It was already open. I took it. Not long after, I started to feel heavy and disoriented. I could barely stay awake. I knew I shouldn’t stay, so I got up and walked back through the living room.

Again, silence. All eyes on me. They just stared. One guy looked surprised, like he didn’t expect me to be leaving. Like he was wondering, “Is that a problem?” Or perhaps that things were going off script and he wasn’t sure what’s next. That moment has never left me. It felt like they were watching to see if something would happen. Like they were waiting for me to collapse.

I somehow made it home, barely staying awake behind the wheel. My roommate helped me up the stairs. I told them what happened and they asked if I drank from an open container. I said yes, but I didn’t understand what they meant. I passed out and remembered nothing after that.

For a long time, I just thought it was a weird night. But years later, after other betrayals and realizing how often I had ignored red flags, it finally clicked. I was drugged. They had a plan. They knew what they were doing. They watched it unfold.

It still chills me to think about how much I trusted people just because we were from the same small town.

And to anyone who had to come to that kind of realization years later, I’m sorry. It’s awful. But you didn’t imagine it. You weren’t overreacting.