Tag, You’re It

I used to think grown-ups always knew what was right. They seemed to have all the answers, like they were in control of everything. Back then, I thought there were rules for how things worked, even in little moments—like the way someone should look at you, or how a touch was supposed to feel. But nobody ever explained what it meant when something felt… different. When a look lingered too long, or a hand stayed where it shouldn’t.

I didn’t know back then. I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel. I was just a kid. I was just eight.

Ruben was my best friend’s neighbor. He was older, maybe seventeen, and that was the best part—he was older. He didn’t want to hang out with the little kids, but he did. He came over and played with us sometimes. He’d play tag, and it was fun. It was always fun. I thought he was cool because he was older, and all the older kids seemed like they knew more about the world. They were bigger, faster, and just… better at everything.

But now, I remember it differently.

It started like a normal game of tag. The sun was hot on my back, and I could feel the dirt sticking to my knees. My best friend was running beside me, laughing. We’d run around the yard for hours, getting sweaty and tired, but still wanting more. We were good at it, or so I thought. I thought we were fast.

And Ruben? He was always it. Always chasing us, laughing like it was the best game ever. He was faster than us, but we liked it. He was the older kid. He made it exciting. When he tagged us, he always said the same thing, “Tag, you’re it!”. His hand would pat my back, and it felt like a normal game. He was bigger, sure, but it didn’t matter.

He didn’t always play with us. He didn’t have to. He was Ruben, after all. But when he did, it felt special. It felt like he was letting us in on something, like we were part of something bigger.

I didn’t know that the rules were different for him.

I don’t remember when the game started to feel… off. It wasn’t like one big thing happened. It was small at first, tiny things that didn’t seem like anything at all. But I started to feel his eyes on me. And I’d feel this cold shiver run down my spine when he looked at me too long, when his hand lingered on my shoulder just a little too much. I didn’t understand why, but something told me it wasn’t just a game anymore.

I didn’t play much after that. I stayed inside, pretending I was busy. I felt weird whenever Ruben came around, so I started avoiding him. But my best friend didn’t. He kept playing, even when I didn’t. Ruben kept coming around, and my best friend kept running after him, always happy, always smiling, never noticing anything was wrong.

As the years passed, Ruben faded from my life. My family moved to another part of town, and I never saw him again. But the memory lingered, gnawing at me, whispering in the back of my mind every time I saw someone too eager, too friendly, too close.

Though I wish I had stayed. I wish I had told my best friend.

But I didn’t. I let him go. I let Ruben stay in his life.

It wasn’t until much later that my best friend first told me what happened. He, who had always been too trusting, told me one evening when we were older. He was crying, his voice shaking as he confessed what Ruben had done to him, how Ruben had touched him, how Ruben had crossed a line that shouldn’t have been crossed. The things that Ruben made him do when no one else was around.

I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t. I couldn’t understand how the person I hoped was just playing could hurt someone, could be capable of things so vulgar. But when he finally said it out loud, I couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, I had known. Deep down, I had always known. I had felt it in my gut, in the way Ruben had looked at me. I had felt the coldness in his touch. The way he made me feel like I was his to chase, to catch, to do whatever he wanted.

I don’t know what hurt more: the fact that I didn’t say anything when I had the chance to, or the fact that I didn’t see it, didn’t realise it. When I should have known. I should have told him to stop. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was just a kid.

And now, when I think back to those days, I don’t even remember the games. I don’t remember the laughter. I remember the way Ruben’s smile didn’t feel right, the way his touch felt like something else, like something darker. I remember feeling trapped, even when I was running.

But it was too late to say anything now. It was too late to stop it.

I never told anyone what happened. Not really. Not the way I should’ve. What would I have said? I was just a kid.

I wonder, if I’d stayed longer, if I’d watched closer, would I have seen what was truly happening? Could I have saved him? Or did Ruben already have him—already have both of us—caught in a game we couldn’t escape?

I’ll never know if he’s free of it. If I’m free of it.

Maybe Ruben was the game. Maybe the whole time, it was always about us—always about how far we would go, how long we would run, before we realized there was nowhere to hide.

But I’ll never know for sure. And maybe that’s the worst part.

Because now, every time I turn a corner, every time I hear a voice that sounds too familiar, I wonder if I’m still running.

I wonder if it’s still his game. And I wonder if, one day, I’ll be ‘it’ again.