< Translator’s note: The original formatting of the stories has been preserved. The translations aim to remain as close as possible to each author's original wording and expression.

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The violence wasn't obvious. But it happens more often than we think.

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He didn't use force. He didn't cause me any physical harm.

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We're just kissing, we're both 16. His hand moves down toward the clasp of my jeans, he tries to undo it, and I remove his hand. I remove his hand for the tenth time. Again, and again. I'm too ashamed and embarrassed to say my refusal out loud, even though I am doing it non-verbally. At some point, I break and allow him to do it, with his hands at first only.

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The next time, I again broke (after removing his hands repeatedly), and we almost had penile-vaginal sex. Afterwards, I will go home and swallow almost the entire contents of the medicine cabinet, but thankfully, I will survive. Then this will grow into two years of an abusive relationship, with constant emotional and sexual violence, constant disrespect for my person and for my physical boundaries.

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He will assure me that something is wrong with me, that it's my fault, that I'm awful. And I will believe this for a long time. Even writing this now, I hear a voice in my head — it's your fault, it's your fault, you let it happen, you didn't leave, you didn't say anything. That voice is almost screaming at me.

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Stop. Women who are raped are never guilty of the violence. Only the rapist is. Then I will leave him, but the traumas he inflicted on me will stay with me forever.

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Anonymous author; story told in 2019 as part of the "16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence" campaign