Women, delicate flower, a touch could ruin her petals.
Not because she is weak, but because the world has never learned to touch her gently.
She was meant to be admired, not possessed.
Cherished, not bruised.
But too often, careless hands reach in with no thought for the damage they leave behind.
And still, she blooms.
---
[Girl’s POV]
I left work later than usual. The streetlights flickered above, and the cold air bit through my thin jacket. I wrapped my arms around myself and quickened my steps. My phone had just died, and the road ahead was nearly empty.
Then I heard the sound, tires screeching. A car stopped right in front of me.
I froze. My heart thudded in my chest.
The door opened.
“Hey, you need a ride?” a voice said, too smooth, too cold.
I turned to walk away. Fast. But I didn’t get far.
Someone grabbed me from behind.
[Stranger’s POV – Next Morning]
It was early. The sun hadn’t fully risen. I took the same path through the trees behind the park like I always did.
That’s when I saw it, something pale between the bushes.
I stepped closer.
A woman. She wasn’t moving.
Her clothes were torn, barely hanging on. Her body was bruised, her face swollen. She looked like she had been dumped there, like garbage.
My stomach turned. I called the police with shaking hands.
Whoever had done this... they didn’t just hurt her. They tried to erase her.
---
Not all men, they chant like a shield.
But every missing girl, every broken body, every whispered warning,
always a man behind it.
So tell me again, what does ‘not all’ even mean when there's always one?
-Laila🎀
