Sometimes I meet someone.

She’ll be a shy girl. Smart. But doesn’t say much.

She’ll be thin. Very thin.

She’ll be wearing long-sleeved shirts only.

And I’ll already know.

Because we all know each other.

Inevitably though, the day will come when her sleeves don’t cover her arms. Either because she finds the trust to wear a t-shirt or because the sleeves slide up.

Either way, the scars will be there.

It breaks my heart every time.

These scars mean so much more than just ripped up skin. The pain goes so much deeper than what we make visible to the outside world.

I won’t ask her what happened. Not unless we become good friends. Or unless there is a reason to ask.

But I’ll watch over her. Best as I can anyway. My friends do the same for me.


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