I did not report... because I used to love him, because I still cared about him, because I told him to get that condom.

I did not report because I was wearing my shortest short skirt and my fuck-me heels, because being in bed and being cuddled by him felt like one of the safest places in the world. Because crashing at an old's friend and ex-boyfriend's seemed far safer than braving the two night buses and the street where the scary boy follows me home every so often.

I did not report because I am angry at me. He betrayed my trust, but I got me raped. Or assaulted. Or taken advantage of. Or whatever that grey area is between consent, non-consent and acquiescence. I was not there for me.

I could have left. I have a phone and one can find taxis even in Hackney. I could have moved to the sofa. I am a feminist, he thinks he's a feminist, I know that women tend to appease rather than fight.

Yet as the 7am light hit my groggy head, and we'd been drunk, then asleep and then we were awake again and the number of No's! was getting embarrassing, he raised his voice with me and I gave up. I gave in. I was not there.

This is why I do not report.