🚉 The Wrong Door, Every Time - A simple mistake. A public scene. A truth no one expected.
One ordinary day. One crowded station. One moment that changes everything.
Story: S A Spencer
Author of Popular Fictions: The Pink Mutiny, The Black Waters, Dream In Shackles
The screaming started before anyone even understood what was
happening. The women’s toilet at Central Station erupted like someone had set
off a fire alarm inside. A woman burst out first, clutching her handbag to her
chest as if it were a shield.
“There’s a man in there!” she shouted, breathless.
Another woman followed, dragging her daughter by the wrist.
“This is outrageous. Someone needs to do something.”
A third woman stumbled out, still zipping up her jeans, eyes
wide with panic. Behind them, Rhea Malik stepped out too — pale, startled, and
blinking under the harsh fluorescent lights. Her backpack hung half‑open, one
strap slipping off her shoulder.
A female station guard jogged over, radio bouncing against
her vest. “Alright, what’s going on here?”
The women pointed at Rhea as if she were a wild animal that
had wandered into the wrong enclosure.
“Him!” “He walked straight in!” “He scared us!”
Rhea flinched at every “him,” as if each one were a slap.
The cleaner — a middle‑aged woman with rubber gloves still on
— raised her hand timidly. “I tried to stop… this person. I said it’s the
women’s toilet. But… he said he’s a woman. I didn’t know what to do.”
Rhea swallowed hard. “I am a woman. I am Rhea.”
The guard looked at her properly now — the short hair, the
loose shirt, the cap pulled low. She didn’t look confused, just observant.
“Okay,” the guard said calmly. “Let’s all take a breath.
Rhea, is it?”
“Yes,” Rhea murmured.
“Can you come with me for a moment?”
Rhea nodded. “Please… come inside with me. I’ll show you. I
don’t want to do this out here.”
The guard gestured for the crowd to stay back. A few women
huffed. One muttered, “This is ridiculous.” Another crossed her arms, refusing
to look at Rhea at all.
Inside, the toilet was still vibrating with the chaos that
had just spilled out of it. A lipstick lay on the floor, rolling slowly in a
circle. A tap ran unattended. A cubicle door swung open and shut with the
movement of the air.
Rhea stepped into a stall, turned her back, and unbuttoned
her shirt just enough to reveal her small breasts. Her voice trembled. “See?
I’m not lying.”
The guard’s expression softened. “Alright. That’s enough. You
can button up.”
Rhea did, fingers shaking. “This happens all the time. Every
time I walk into a women’s toilet, I feel like I’m walking into a trap. I
prefer gender‑neutral ones when I can find them… but most places don’t have
them.”
The guard leaned against the sink. “You shouldn’t have to
prove anything to anyone.”
Rhea let out a breath she’d been holding for years. “Tell
that to the world.”
They stepped back outside. The crowd had thinned, but a few
women still hovered, embarrassed now, avoiding eye contact. The cleaner looked
especially guilty.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I really didn’t mean to upset
you. I just… didn’t know.”
Rhea nodded. “I know. It’s alright.”
A teenage girl who’d been watching from the side muttered,
“People need to stop assuming stuff.”
The guard cleared her throat. “Alright, everyone. Back to
your day. Nothing to see here.”
Rhea slipped away toward the platforms, blending into the
moving crowd. A busker played a didgeridoo near the stairs, the deep vibration
settling her nerves a little. She passed a poster that read “Respect
Everyone — Every Day.” The irony stung, but she kept walking.
She found a quiet corner near Platform 17 and sat down,
letting her backpack rest against her knees. The crowd moved around her like
she was a rock in a river. Her hands were still trembling.
Her phone buzzed. A message from her partner: “How’s your
day going?”
Rhea typed back: “Bit rough. I’ll tell you later.”
She didn’t want to explain it over text. Not again.
A Week Earlier — Her First Day at the New Job
The office had been bright, modern, and full of people who
spoke too loudly about coffee. Rhea had walked in wearing her usual button‑up
shirt and trousers, hair tucked under her cap. She liked dressing simply.
Comfortably. Predictably. But predictability didn’t stop people from making
assumptions.
A man from HR approached her with a clipboard. “You must be
the new guy. Welcome aboard, mate.”
Rhea blinked. “I’m not a guy.”
He froze. “Oh. Right. Sorry. My mistake.”
But the mistake kept happening.
At the kitchenette, someone said, “Hey, bro, pass the sugar?”
In the meeting room, a colleague whispered, “Is he the new
developer?”
By lunchtime, she’d corrected five people. One woman had even
laughed nervously and said, “You just… look very… um… efficient?” Whatever that
meant.
Rhea had gone home that night exhausted, wondering why her
existence seemed to confuse so many people.
The next day wasn’t much better. A man from IT walked up to
her desk with a monitor under his arm.
“You’re the new bloke, yeah? Need help setting up?”
Rhea sighed. “I’m a woman.”
He blinked. “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean anything by it.”
She knew he didn’t. None of them did. But the apologies
didn’t make the exhaustion any lighter.
By the end of the week, she’d started avoiding the
kitchenette altogether. She brought her own thermos of tea and drank it at her
desk. She kept her headphones on even when she wasn’t listening to anything,
just to avoid small talk that would inevitably start with “Hey, man—”
Her manager, a woman named Claire, eventually pulled her
aside.
“You alright? You seem a bit… withdrawn.”
Rhea hesitated. “People keep thinking I’m a man.”
Claire nodded slowly. “I’ve noticed. I’ve corrected a few
myself.”
Rhea blinked. “You have?”
“Of course,” Claire said. “It’s not your job to educate
everyone.”
Rhea felt something loosen in her chest. “Thank you.”
Claire shrugged. “We’re all learning. But you shouldn’t have
to carry the weight of everyone else’s assumptions.”
Rhea had gone home that night feeling a little lighter. Not
fixed. Not healed. But seen.
Back at Central Station
The train announcement crackled overhead. “Platform 18,
service to Parramatta, departing in five minutes.”
Rhea stood, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and headed
toward the escalators. The afternoon sun spilled across the concourse, warm and
bright. She stepped into it, took a breath, and kept walking.
A little boy nearby was staring at her with open curiosity.
Kids didn’t judge — they just looked. He waved. She waved back.
The boy’s mum smiled at her, a small, genuine smile that
didn’t carry any assumptions.
Rhea boarded her train and found a window seat. The carriage
smelled faintly of sunscreen and takeaway chips. A man across from her was
reading a paperback crime novel. A woman beside him was scrolling through her
phone, headphones in.
Normal. Quiet. Peaceful.
Her phone buzzed again. “Lunch later?” her partner
asked.
Rhea typed back: “Yeah. Need it.”
The train lurched forward. The city blurred past — graffiti,
brick walls, flashes of green, the occasional startled pigeon. Rhea rested her
head against the window and closed her eyes.
She wasn’t angry. Not really. Just tired. Tired of
explaining. Tired of proving. Tired of walking into rooms where people saw
something she wasn’t.
But she also knew she wasn’t alone. Claire had seen her. The
teenage girl at the station had seen her. Her partner always saw her.
Maybe that was enough for today.
The train rattled on, steady and rhythmic. Rhea breathed in,
breathed out, and let the motion carry her forward.
Tomorrow would come. And she would walk through whatever door
she needed to — even if the world still hadn’t learned how to look properly.
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