It was just another ordinary day. A slightly warm 25 degrees, a gentle breeze blowing, the sunlight bright but not blinding. I had a shift from 5 p.m. to 10 p.m., preparing ingredients, mixing drinks, greeting customers—just like always. Everyone was busy with their own lives, and so was I.
After work, as usual, I went to the gym. It’s the only place in my life where I still feel I can keep control of my own rhythm. The treadmill, dumbbells, squat rack—these systematic workouts help me maintain balance amid the chaos.
I walked into the shower. Hot water flowed down, washing away sweat and exhaustion. Just as I was about to leave, the door was pulled open. I didn’t even have time to react, hadn’t even turned off the water. It was a blurry, broken moment—time froze, sounds disappeared, and every inch of skin suddenly felt unfamiliar, no longer belonging to me.
I put on my jacket, covering the swollen marks left by the resistance band. I put on a mask, hiding the redness of pimples around my mouth. These are all things that can reasonably exist in everyday life—no one would ask questions. As I left, I still said “Thanks, bye” to the front desk staff, my tone steady, as if nothing had happened.
I rode my scooter from Yonghe, heading north, all the way to the unlit coastline. Out there it was so quiet, it didn’t feel like the real world. I sat by the shore; the wind was gentle, there was no rain. But I heard “raindrops,” one by one. They weren’t falling from the sky—they were falling from inside me. I thought, maybe that’s the only sound I can make—unseen crying, a pain I dare not admit.
On May 12, I went to the hospital. I said I’d had sex and forgot to use protection. The doctor didn’t ask much, just prescribed PEP. I nodded, thanked him, took the medicine—like a responsible adult. This way, I could convince myself it was just a risky sexual encounter, not some kind of trauma. As long as I don’t say it out loud, as long as I don’t admit it, then it’s just an unpleasant event, nothing more.
I went back to work—preparing ingredients, mixing drinks, greeting customers. After my shift, I went to a friend’s bar, drank with them until midnight, laughing and having fun, as if the world had no cracks in it. I told myself: as long as I look normal, as long as I smile naturally, no one will suspect what happened yesterday. That way, I’m not a sexual assault survivor, but just a normal person who had an unfortunate sexual experience.