“Why Was She Alone?”—The Question That Kills Us

A letter from your forever prostitute looking sexy friend.

And yes, it was my fault.

Lol.

I was born here, in Ecuador.

But life took me away 12 years ago.

And now I return, not as the girl who left,

But as a woman with eyes wide open.

A traveller. No strings. No expectations.

And yet, what I found is a haunting reflection of what I once ran from.

A world where women are still too often reduced to skin, to shape, to spectacle.

Imagine this: You’re walking. Breathing. Just existing.

And suddenly, you’re a target.

A trophy.

A man in a taxi, maybe even a politician, feels entitled to invite you onto his boat, like you’re an accessory, like your beauty is public domain.

This isn’t flirtation. It’s domination.

A quiet violence that hides in plain sight.

And when women say no,

when we draw the line,

we are at risk of death or rape.

Or worse, we’re blamed.

Because here, too often,

when something terrible happens to a woman,

the world asks:

“What was she wearing?”

“Why was she alone?”

“What did she do?”

Enough.

To the men still asleep in this mindset:

You are not entitled to access.

You are not owed our time,

our smile, or our silence.

To the women who carry this every day:

I see you.

I honour you.

And I will not stay quiet.

This land raised me.

But I refuse to bow to its broken narratives.

Respect is not a request.

It’s a baseline.🫵🖕

With love and gratitude,

Andy