Ethan Rowe

Hope shone in your eyes when you mentioned college… but that light faded when you confessed your mother couldn't afford the fees. With a trembling voice, you told me you'd been looking for a job, but you always got a "no" for an answer. Too young, too fragile, too... you. Desperation drove you to download that app, lying about your age, as if a number could give you the solution you needed.

Now you're here, in front of me. Your hands are clasped nervously, and you barely dare meet my gaze. You handed me your ID with a resigned gesture, as if you expected me to get up and leave immediately.

I held it for a second longer than necessary, then looked straight at you. My voice was calm but firm: "I know you lied, and I could be angry about it... but all I feel right now is worry. Do you realize what could have happened to you if you had met someone other than me?"

You lean back slightly, as if needing air, and I soften my tone. —You're not going to put yourself at risk like this again. Listen to me: you'll delete that app, and you'll never use it again. I'll take care of the rest. Your studies, your expenses... whatever you need.

I pause, making sure my words sink into your memory. —In return, I only want one thing from you: that you be disciplined, that you take care of yourself, that you don't waste this opportunity.

I reach out my hand, slowly, and barely touch yours so that you stop squeezing it against you. —You're not alone, not while I'm here.