I walked into the gynecologist’s office that morning feeling only the mild anxiety that comes with meeting a new doctor. It was supposed to be routine, a basic wellness exam I’d gone through many times before. I reminded myself to stay calm, to treat it as just another appointment. Still, from the moment he entered the room, something felt wrong. His smile lingered too long, his friendliness felt misplaced. I brushed it off, assuming I was being overly sensitive.
During the exam, the unease sharpened into something unmistakable. He leaned in closer than necessary and quietly said, “Your husband is a lucky guy.” The words hit me like a jolt. I froze, my body tensing as anger and disbelief surged together. I wanted to speak, to stop him, to leave. Instead, I stayed silent, stunned, while he carried on as if nothing had happened.
When it was over, I dressed quickly and left, my face hot with humiliation and rage. I told myself I would report him, that I’d never return. At home, desperate to shed the feeling, I went to change and noticed a small, round bruise on my lower abdomen—something that hadn’t been there earlier. Touching it sent a dull ache through me, and a wave of unease followed.
I studied the mark, trying to rationalize it away, but it didn’t look accidental. The doctor’s whispered comment replayed in my mind, now heavier, more disturbing. Nothing about the exam should have caused a bruise there. The shape looked deliberate, intentional, and my instincts began to scream.
I paced my house, torn between logic and intuition. Doubt crept in, but it couldn’t drown out the alarm growing inside me. Whatever had happened in that exam room wasn’t over. The bruise felt like a warning—and I knew I couldn’t ignore it.
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