No one talks about this out loud. No one puts it at the center of the conversation. But the body… the body always remembers.
The image is clear, direct, impossible to ignore. Inside, where everything should flow in silence, something intrudes. Something microscopic, invisible to the naked eye, yet devastating when it multiplies. Bacteria advance, attach themselves, reproduce without asking permission. And the tissue—red, inflamed—responds with pain.

The sentence hangs in the air, because what comes next is uncomfortable. Because it forces us to look beyond immediate pleasure, beyond the moment, beyond the idea of “it won’t happen to me.”

At first, it doesn’t feel serious. A small discomfort. A strange sensation when urinating. A mild burning that gets blamed on fatigue, on not drinking enough water, on any excuse at all.

But the body knows when something isn’t right.

Inside, the bladder begins to swell. The walls, which should be smooth and resilient, become sensitive, irritated. Each bacterium is a spark on an open wound. And while everything looks normal on the outside, a silent battle is being fought within.

The image shows it without sugarcoating: the pathway through which only clean fluids should travel becomes an invaded road. Bacteria climb, cling, and advance. They respect neither age, nor intentions, nor carelessness.

These are the consequences…
Consequences of not being informed.
Consequences of trusting without protecting oneself.
Consequences of ignoring early warning signs.

Pain arrives when pretending is no longer possible. Urination stops being automatic and becomes something to fear. The body tenses. Fear sets in. And the question comes too late: “Why didn’t I take better care of myself?”

It is not punishment. It is not shame. It is biology.

The human body is delicate. Intimacy, though natural, also carries risks when there is no care, hygiene, or attention. And these bacteria are not an alarmist invention: they are real, persistent, and they know how to take advantage of any lapse.