When the World Refuses to See Us

Name: Iman ( Pseudonym)

Age: 21

Country: Bangladesh

Every writer carries a story etched into the journey of their life, even when the words seem out of reach.

Iman, a writer, was no exception. Each piece of literature he penned drew shocking inspiration from Tama, his dearest friend.

Iman met Tama on his first day at college. She was seated in the seminar room, her gaze lost in the patterns on the tiled floor. The seat next to her was the only one available, so Iman took it, offering a polite nod. Their first conversation was brief—awkward pleasantries exchanged between strangers—but it marked the beginning of a friendship neither had anticipated.

Six months into university, their bond had become undeniable. Tama, once reserved and hesitant to speak, had opened up to Iman. She shared pieces of herself in quiet moments: her failed college romance, the ache of unfulfilled expectations, and the yearning for a partner who truly understood her.

“Hay Man,” Tama would tease, her tone playful yet curious. “Don’t you have anyone you like? Surely, you’ve got a crush on someone!”

Iman would respond with a sheepish laugh, deflecting her questions. Each time, a weight settled in his chest—a mix of confusion and discomfort he couldn’t name.

Despite his avoidance, Iman cared deeply for Tama. She, in turn, mistook his quiet kindness for something more. The way he never crossed boundaries, never disrespected her, felt like love. It was different from anything she’d known before.

Today, Tama had a plan. She’d take Iman to the cinema, a romantic movie she’d chosen carefully. In the darkness of the theater, she’d lean in during a tender scene and tell him how she felt.

Iman agreed to the outing, unaware of the movie’s theme. As the film unfolded, he felt a familiar unease creeping in. The characters’ intimate moments filled the screen, their closeness magnified in the dim light. Iman’s chest tightened.

Why is this necessary? he wondered, his thoughts spiraling. Why must people always seek this closeness?

Tama, oblivious to his turmoil, leaned toward him. Her intent was clear—a kiss, a confession—but Iman reacted before he could think.

“Sex averse” means having a strong dislike or aversion to sexual activity, actively avoiding it, and feeling uncomfortable or distressed at the thought of engaging in sexual behavior; essentially, someone who strongly prefers not to have sex.”

Internet

The sound of the slap echoed in the theater. Tama’s hand flew to her cheek, her face hidden by her hair. The audience turned, murmurs spreading through the crowd. Iman’s eyes were wide with horror, his hand trembling. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He’d only felt an overwhelming need to escape, to push away the closeness that suffocated him.

Tama left in tears, her figure disappearing into the shadows. Iman remained frozen in his seat, staring blankly at the screen. His mind replayed the moment over and over.

That night, sleep evaded him. He scoured the internet for answers, piecing together fragments of his identity he’d never understood. The term “sex aversion” appeared—a phenomenon affecting a small percentage of people, characterized by an intense negative reaction to sexual intimacy. For the first time, Iman felt a glimmer of clarity.

But clarity brought no comfort. He thought of Tama, her hurt, and the slap that had shattered their friendship. Determined to apologize, he rehearsed his words as he walked to campus the next morning. He would explain, beg for forgiveness, and hope she could understand.

When he arrived, the news hit him like a tidal wave. Tama had taken her own life.

That realization twisted the knife in his heart. Tama had seen something in him that made her believe he could be her safe space, her refuge. But his reaction—born out of fear, confusion, and his own unresolved struggles—had shattered that illusion. The slap wasn’t just an impulsive act of anger; it was a violent manifestation of his inability to process his own truth. The betrayal in Tama’s eyes in that moment haunted him, a reminder of how deeply he had failed her.

Iman wanted to go back, to undo everything. He longed to tell Tama what he had learned about himself, to explain that his reaction wasn’t about her, but about him. He wanted to apologize, to make her see that her affection and trust weren’t misplaced. But now, the chance to make amends was gone.

In the days that followed, Iman became consumed by a single question: Why didn’t I know?

He thought back to the books he had devoured as a child, the countless movies and TV shows he had watched. Stories about love, passion, heartbreak—those were everywhere. But not once had he encountered a story about someone like him. Not once had he seen someone grappling with the complexities of being asexual or experiencing sex aversion.

He felt betrayed by the silence, by the absence of representation. How could he have understood himself when no one had ever told stories about people like him? How many others like Tama and him were out there, feeling alienated and broken because the world refused to acknowledge their existence?

Iman knew he couldn’t turn back time or erase the hurt he had caused Tama. But he could try to make amends by making a difference. He resolved to speak up, to create aro-ace stories—a new realm of literature free from amatonormativity, heteronormativity, or allosexual norms. A world where no one would be forced to live in the shadows of ignorance.

Because stories matter. Representation matters. And for people like Tama—and for himself—Iman vowed to ensure the world would finally listen.