I sat at the station alone and quiet, listening to music with bright-yellow-and-black earphones, living out the public transportation portion of my life like the softly-blurred nightmare it is, enduring it and immersing my mind in gentle stories of Life After Melbourne.

And a man just started talking to me. I did not initiate conversation - I may have attracted attention by singing aloud, but I don't know why he said "Hello". I should have nodded politely and smiled my usual, tight "Go away" smile, reserved for situations just like this. I did smile the smile, but I said, "Oh... hi," back.

He asked questions, and foolishly, I answered them. Why did this man care to know whether I work or study? Why did he ask what I do for a living? Why did he ask my per-hourly wage (which I did not tell - I shrugged and skirted around it. Not even acquaintances ask these questions - why should I answer it for a stranger?)? Why did he ask where I worked, and why didn't I tell him a false answer?

He did not ask my name. If he had, I would have answered "Annabelle Smith" or some other fake moniker.

Why do I have to do this? Why do we have to play safe and feel pulsing, confusing fear when a strange man asks questions of a lone girl? The threat of assault, of hurt, of rape - it permeates everything.

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