< 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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It wasn't rape. But it was violence.

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We'd known each other for less than a month. One evening, we were at his place watching a Japanese animated film.

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He kept placing his hand on me. I kept removing it. He tried to kiss me several times. I kept turning away. He kept pushing his hands toward my groin. I nervously tried to remove his hands.

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Throughout the entire viewing, I planned every step of how to leave his apartment as quickly as possible. Throughout the entire film, I worried that he might become more insistent. Throughout the entire film, I was afraid he might do something worse to me.

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When the film ended, he took my hands in his and leaned over me. I grew even more frightened. He kissed me, and I responded. Afterward, I tried to pull back. He wouldn't let go.

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I said: "It's time. I need to go." He: "Stay." Me: "I really need to go." He: "Oh, stay." Me: "I really need to go. Do you hear me?" He kept holding me and kissing me. Those few minutes turned into hours. I was scared. I pulled myself together. I started pulling my hands free. I spoke louder and more firmly.

"Let go."

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He reluctantly let me go. I started gathering my things quickly. It might seem like a small thing. So he didn't let go. So he likes you. But I don't like him. I don't like being deprived of my freedom. I don't like having the boundaries of my body violated. I don't like being heard. I don't like this.

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