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The year I loved Channing Waltz the most, he shattered my hopes. I remember, as I was hauled into the restroom, beaten mercilessly by strangers, there he stood, grinning like the sun itself. His face beamed with a brightness that made my heart sink. The burns from his childhood friend's curling iron marred my skin, leaving a trail of scars, and all the while, he took out his phone, snapping pictures of me in my undressed humiliation and posting them online for the world to mock. I cried, begged him to spare me, but he only laughed coldly, his voice as sharp as a blade. "You haven't even begun to suffer what my sister went through. What's the hurry?" That was when the truth hit me like a lightning strike. He had come to me, drawn me in with warmth, with affection, pretending to care—when all along, it was merely a means to an end. He had used me to set the stage to avenge his sister.