< 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.
I was 18. I had just started a relationship with a guy I liked very much. It was late spring, before the full-scale war, back when students would stay out all night and sleep over at friends' places because they didn't have money for a taxi. My parents had gone on their annual trip, and I was home alone. I invited some girlfriends over, so I wouldn't feel so lonely.
Around 11 p.m., two guys I knew from university called me. They were drunk and in high spirits and asked if they could stay the night because public transportation had already stopped running. Of course, I invited them over. The girls wanted to go out for a walk, and the guys were in no condition to go, so I stayed home with them (we weren't close enough for me to feel comfortable leaving them alone in my apartment).
As soon as the door closed, one of them (let's call him "A") suggested we play strip cards. The other one ("B") agreed immediately. For context, I wasn't drunk—I hadn't had anything to drink that evening. I agreed because I didn't know how to say no. It seemed harmless until "A" took off his underwear. I texted my friends and asked them to come back. They called me, but "B" took my phone and told them everything was fine. Then he moved my phone, along with my belongings, into another room. At that point, I was wearing only my underwear. Later, this would be used as an argument: "You undressed yourself." And also: "What did you expect when you invited two drunk guys to your apartment?"
"A" started trying to convince me to have a threesome, saying things like, "When else will you ever get a chance like this?" and "We're young—later in life there won't be time for this." I politely explained that I had a boyfriend and, overall, that we shouldn't have let things get this far. The next moment, "A" was already on top of me, taking off my underwear and putting on a condom (I still don't know where he got it from. To this day, I believe he knew exactly what he was doing). "B" was lying next to us, masturbating. I said "no." Many times. I didn't fight back. I didn't scream. I froze. I was in my own home, and I was completely powerless against two men I knew.
By the time the girls came back, it was already over. I was still lying on the bed. "A" was already asleep in another room. "B" was lying next to me. The girls and I went out onto the balcony, and I told them everything. They didn't believe me. Or rather, they didn't believe that I truly hadn't wanted it. Later, it turned out that "B" knew I didn't want it and therefore (according to him) didn't even touch me. But he enjoyed his "revenge" because I had once rejected him. That hurt more than the rape itself.
My boyfriend went to "confront" them and came back saying, "Well, you did it voluntarily, so why would I beat them up?" Because of "A," several groups at the university heard that I had taken advantage of the fact that he was drunk and had seduced him (even writing this now sounds absurd). It took me time to realize that what had happened was rape, not "he was just drunk," or "he was hurt," or "I undressed myself."
After that, I didn't develop an aversion to men, or sex, or anything like that, and that also weighed on me, because I thought it was supposed to be the opposite—I was supposed to suffer (?). I wanted an apology. I wanted them to understand that what they had done was wrong. That never happened. I don't know where they are or what has become of them, and I don't want to know. Almost ten years have passed.
Now, what I want is justice, and for other women not to have to experience the suppression and terror that I lived through. And I want the people closest to them to believe them and support them. I think that is the most important thing.
Anonymous author, 27 years old; story shared in 2026