They always mistake silence for weakness.
That's the first lie men tell themselves.
I wasn't born quiet. I became quiet. Somewhere between the first time a man touched my wrist too long and the night I stopped crying when it happened again. You learn, after a while, that screaming never saves you. It just teaches them where to aim next.
I sit at the corner of the café like I always do — black coffee, no sugar, a paperback I never really read, and eyes that scan everything. That man two tables down? He's watching me. Trying not to. But he is. His fingers twitch like he wants to own something. Touch something.
That's the second lie: that their hunger is harmless.
I stir my coffee. Slowly.
He doesn't know it yet, but this is his last conversation.
They come with the same script.
"Do you mind if I sit?"
"You look familiar."
"What's a pretty girl doing all alone?"
I smile. The kind of smile that makes a man lean in and never think of leaning back. My mother taught me how to fold napkins and hold cutlery; the world taught me how to hold pain like a knife — quietly, efficiently.
He walks over.
His name doesn't matter. Not to me. Not to the police.
Not even to the last man who said I looked like someone who needed saving.
He never made it home.
He smiles like a fool who's been taught to grin instead of think.
"Mind if I join you?"
His voice has that fake softness — the one they use to pet women before they bite.
I nod. Slowly. Because I want him to feel in control.
"I'm James," he says. "You come here often?"
I let the silence stretch long enough for him to twitch. Then I meet his eyes.
"My name's Ayo." A lie. But he'll never need the truth.
He laughs, relieved. Thinks he's charming. Thinks I'm shy.
Thinks he just earned another notch on his belt.
He talks. About work. About gym. About how girls don't "appreciate nice guys." I smile in all the right places. Nod when he brags. Let him feel like I'm impressed.
I check my watch. Not because I'm in a hurry.
Because I already know how this ends.
He'll pay the bill. He'll offer to walk me home. And I'll let him.
He doesn't know what's waiting there.
They call me quiet. But it's not silence.
It's calculation.