I was twenty-one and terrified of being found out for a different betrayal. I needed a story big enough to silence the questions. So I chose him ' quiet, kind, inconveniently present that night ' and I said the word that ends lives. Rape. I watched the room change when I said it. The way belief snapped into place without proof. He cried. I didn't. He swore he'd never touched me. I swore he had. The court believed the one who sounded most broken. Seven years he served. Seven birthdays, seven Christmases, seven winters behind concrete for something that never happened. I built a life on top of his absence. A job. A partner. Children. Then one evening I saw him stacking shelves in a discount shop, thinner, older, already sentenced again by the looks people gave him. That night I told the police the truth. They call it a late confession. I call it cowardice that lasted a decade.