I Am A Human, Not An Object.

Dear Train Station Guy,

I was feeling really beautiful today. Make up was perfect, and I felt confident enough to wear my favourite red dress. I’ve been losing weight and haven’t felt able to wear that dress in a long time. It’s been a long road back to being myself again.

It was hard to miss you on the platform – you were loudly complaining to the station staff about the delays and my spidey-senses were tingling with that ‘trouble’ vibe. I moved further down the platform. I’m not the best in busy public spaces as it is.

You approached me. I’m a nice person, so when you said “Hi,” I said it back. It’s important to me to be friendly, because the world sucks sometimes and a smile can make a huge difference. But then you started undressing me with your eyes.

“You’re pretty nice,” you said, slowly trailing your gaze from my feet to my cleavage.

You were about 6’3” and a fair few stone heavier than me.

I felt vulnerable. I looked around for anyone to rescue me, but no one was paying attention. And why would they? The words themselves weren’t red-flag words.

Taking a deep, steady breath I said, “Thank you, but I’m married.”

I shouldn’t have to justify my unwillingness to engage with you by my marital status.

“He’s a very lucky man,” you said, talking to my breasts. Then you left.

I felt naked. I felt small.

I felt scared.

You’ve probably already forgotten about that brief chat with me. But I haven’t. And I probably won’t.

I Am A Human, Not An Object.

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