I arrived at the gynecologist’s office that morning carrying only the faint nervousness that comes with seeing a new physician. The visit was meant to be routine—just another standard checkup I’d experienced countless times. I told myself there was nothing to worry about. Yet the moment he walked in, a sense of discomfort settled over me. His smile lingered unnaturally, his warmth felt inappropriate. I dismissed the feeling, convincing myself I was overreacting.
As the examination continued, that discomfort grew sharper and impossible to ignore. He moved closer than required and murmured, “Your husband is a lucky man.” The comment stunned me. My body stiffened as shock and anger surged at once. I wanted to interrupt, to leave immediately—but I didn’t. I lay there, silent and shaken, while he behaved as though nothing had occurred.
Once it ended, I dressed in a hurry and left, my skin burning with embarrassment and fury. I promised myself I would never go back, that I would report him. Later at home, trying to shake the experience, I changed my clothes and noticed a small circular bruise on my lower abdomen—one I was certain hadn’t been there before. When I touched it, a dull pain spread, followed by a deep sense of unease.
I stared at the mark, searching for a harmless explanation, but none made sense. The doctor’s words echoed in my head, now darker and more unsettling. There was no reason the exam should have left a bruise like that. Its shape seemed intentional, and my instincts grew louder.
I wandered through my house, caught between doubt and intuition. Questions surfaced, but they couldn’t silence the warning rising inside me. Whatever had happened in that room hadn’t ended there. The bruise felt like a signal—and I knew I couldn’t look away from it.