#Flasher

"I swear to god, if you don’t stop staring at my fries, I’m going to stab you with this fork." Mina flicked the utensil toward Liam’s wandering fingers, her tone more amused than threatening.

Liam grinned, unrepentant, and stole one anyway. "You ordered the truffle parmesan ones. That’s basically a declaration of war." The restaurant hummed around them—clinking glasses, overlapping chatter, the occasional burst of laughter. It was packed for a Thursday night, every booth crammed and the bar three-deep with after-work drinkers. The place was a popular hangout for people from their college.

Mina rolled her eyes but nudged the plate of fries closer to Liam. "You’re lucky I like you." She’d known Liam since freshman orientation, back when he’d been the only person who didn’t laugh at her for getting lost between the biology and philosophy buildings. Now, three years later, he was still the one she called when she needed someone to split an absurdly large appetizer platter with. He and Jenna, of course, their common friend. She was supposed to join them today, but had said that she would be late.

A sharp twinge curled low in Mina's stomach. She shifted slightly, frowning. The truffle fries had been delicious—crispy, salty, the perfect amount of grease—but something about them wasn’t sitting right. Maybe it was the aioli. She took a sip of water, willing the discomfort away.

The twinge deepened into a sickening cramp, hot and urgent. Mina clenched her jaw, gripping the edge of the table as her knuckles went white. Liam was mid-sentence, gesturing wildly about some campus protest, but his voice blurred into static as her insides twisted. She stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor. "Bathroom," she managed, already stepping sideways to squeeze past a server balancing three entrees.

The restroom sign glowed at the end of a narrow hallway, past a throng of diners laughing over shared desserts. Every step was agony—her thighs pressed together, her breath shallow. She shoved the door open with too much force, barely registering whether she locked the door properly behind her, lunging at the commode—only, a half-second too late. Her bowel betrayed her before she could undo her dress and sit down!

Afterward, trembling and slick with sweat, Mina stared at the ruin of her favorite jeans in numb horror. Explosive diarrhea? The stench was unbearable. She gagged, stripping them off with frantic, graceless tugs, then her underwear, balling them up and shoving them into the sanitary bin like evidence of a crime. Her T-shirt was in no better condition and the stains had sunk as deep as onto the backband of her bra. And they all went the same way. The sink water was lukewarm when she scrubbed her legs and waist raw, her reflection in the mirror wide-eyed and ghost-pale.

A knock rattled the door. "Occupied?" a woman’s voice called, impatient.

Mina's breath hitched. "Just—just a minute!" she stammered, voice cracking. The knocking stopped and footsteps faded away, but the silence that followed was worse. She turned back to the mirror, gripping the edges of the sink. No clothes. No way out. The bathroom was stark—no spare towels, no forgotten hoodie draped over a hook, not even toilet roll, all of which she used up to clean herself. It was just her, bare under the flickering fluorescent lights, and the growing pressure of someone needing to use the washroom at any moment.

She pressed her ear to the door, hearing the murmur of the restaurant beyond. If she could just crack it open, call Liam over without exposing herself—her fingers trembled on the latch. The door was heavier than she remembered. It swung wide with a groan, her weight pitching her forward before she could stop it.

Cold air hit her skin as she stumbled into the hallway, one arm flailing for balance. A waiter carrying a tray of drinks froze mid-step. His eyes widened. Mina's stomach dropped. Time didn't slow—it fractured. The waiter's tray hit the floor with a crash, glasses shattering, champagne foaming across the tiles. Conversations stuttered into silence as heads turned.

Someone gasped. A child pointed, gleeful and shrill: "Mommy, that lady's not wearing pants!" Laughter erupted in jagged bursts, phones lifting like a swarm of fireflies catching light. Liam's voice cut through the noise—"Mina?!"—but it was too late. A man at the bar whistled, raising his pint glass in a mock toast. "Nice ass, sweetheart!" The heat in her cheeks burned down to her chest.

The laughter swelled like a wave crashing over her, pinning her in place. Mina's arms crossed over her chest, her fingers digging into her own skin as if she could shrink into herself. The restaurant's overhead lights felt like spotlights, exposing every inch of her. A woman at a nearby table hissed, "Disgusting," while yanking her child's face into her shoulder—too late. The kid was already grinning and giggling, twisting to get another look.

Liam's chair screeched as he stood, his face pale. He didn't move toward her, just stared, mouth half-open like he couldn't process what he was seeing. A flash went off—someone's phone, held high to capture her hunched shoulders, the way her knees pressed together. Mina's breath came in shallow, panicked hitches. She needed to move. Needed to do something. But her legs refused to obey.

"Someone get her a napkin or—or something," a server muttered, but no one moved. The crowd was too busy laughing, whispering, recording. A man in a booth leaned forward, elbows on the table, grinning like he'd won something. "Come on, sweetheart, turn around!" His friend snorted into his beer.

Then, a voice cut through the noise—sharp, familiar. "Oh my god, shut the hell up!" A blur of motion: Jenna, Liam's flatmate and their common friend, shoving past a gawking couple, her leather jacket already half-off. She didn't hesitate, just strode forward and draped it over Mina's shoulders, blocking the worst of it. "You people are vile!" Jenna snapped, glaring at the closest phones until some of them lowered.

"What?" someone protested from the back, "She is the one walking around buck-ass naked. Now is it illegal to even look?" Jenna snapped immediately at the unseen man in the leering crowd, "Yeah, dickhead! It's called harassment!" She shielded Mina, as good as she could with her body and hands.

Jenna’s jacket smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and vanilla, the rough leather warm against Mina’s bare skin. The weight of it grounded her, just enough to kickstart her frozen limbs. “Move,” Jenna muttered, steering Mina toward the exit with a firm hand between her shoulder blades. The crowd parted reluctantly, some still laughing, others feigning discomfort while their phones remained raised. Mina kept her eyes on the floor, the tiles blurring as her vision swam with unshed tears.

Liam finally snapped out of his stupor, knocking over his chair as he lunged forward. “I’ve got her—” he started, but Jenna shot him a look sharp enough to make him falter. “You had her,” she hissed, and something in her tone made Liam flinch. Mina didn’t have the capacity to process it—not when every nerve in her body was screaming, not when the echoes of laughter still rang in her ears like a taunt.

The night air outside was a slap of cold, but Mina welcomed it. Jenna didn’t stop until they were around the corner, out of sight of the restaurant’s windows. Then, finally, she turned Mina to face her, grip tight on her shoulders. “Breathe,” Jenna ordered, and Mina realized she’d been holding her breath. She gasped in a ragged inhale, the first of many, her body shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

“I—I don’t—” Mina stammered, but Jenna shook her head. “Don’t talk yet.” She shrugged off her scarf—thin, useless against the cold, but it was something—and wrapped it around Mina’s waist like a makeshift skirt. It barely covered her thighs, but it was better than having nothing. Jenna’s phone was already out, her thumbs flying over the screen. “I’m calling a ride. We’re going to my place. You’re not going home like this.”

The Uber arrived faster than Mina expected—probably because Jenna had tipped double for “urgent pickup.” The driver’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror once, took in Mina’s tear-streaked face and the jacket barely covering her, then deliberately looked away. Jenna slid in beside her, hip pressing close, radiating warmth like a furnace. “Eyes on the road! And, floor it,” she told the driver, and he did.

Mina’s fingers clutched the edges of Jenna’s jacket, knuckles white. The leather creaked under her grip. She should say something. Thank you. Or apologize. Or scream. But her throat felt sealed shut, the weight of what had just happened pressing down like a physical thing. The restaurant’s laughter still echoed in her skull, sharp and relentless.

Jenna’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, scowled, then shoved it into her pocket without replying. “Liam,” she muttered, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did. Mina couldn’t fathom facing him right now—or ever. The way he’d stared, frozen, while strangers took pictures of—

The car hit a pothole, jolting them sideways. Jenna’s arm shot out, bracing Mina before she could slide. “Easy,” she said, softer now. Her thumb brushed Mina’s shoulder, once, fleeting.

The Uber’s heater roared, blasting stale air that smelled vaguely of pine cleaner and old fries. Mina focused on the scent, anything to distract from the way her pulse still thundered in her ears. Jenna’s fingers drummed against her thigh—impatient, restless—but she didn’t speak. The silence was a mercy.

Jenna’s apartment was a fourth-floor walkup with peeling paint and a front door that stuck. She shoulder-checked it open, kicking a pair of sneakers out of the way. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” she said, tossing her keys onto the cluttered coffee table. “I’ll grab you some proper clothes.”

Mina hesitated in the doorway, Jenna’s jacket still clutched around her. The apartment was dim, lit only by a single lamp with a crooked shade. Laundry piled on the couch, textbooks strewn across the floor—lived-in chaos. Safe.

The bathroom was barely bigger than a closet, but it had a lock. Mina turned it with trembling fingers, then sagged against the door. Her reflection in the mirror was a mess: mascara smudged under her eyes, lips bitten raw. She turned the faucet on full blast, cupping icy water to her face until her skin went numb.

The water dripped from Mina’s chin onto the cracked porcelain of the sink. She gripped the edges, knuckles white, staring at her reflection like it might offer answers. None came. A knock startled her—Déjà Vu. But it was Jenna’s voice this time, muffled through the door. “I left clothes outside. Take your time.” The footsteps retreated, leaving Mina alone with the hum of the pipes.

She opened the door a crack, snatching the pile of fabric—sweatpants, an oversized band T-shirt, a pair of socks balled together. They smelled like detergent and something faintly herbal, Jenna’s signature scent. Dressing quickly, Mina hesitated before the mirror again. The clothes swallowed her, the hem of the shirt brushing her thighs. It was better than nothing. Better than before.