You know the kind.
The ones you check are there when you’re lying in bed in the middle of the night, restless with thoughts of a past that’s been crumpled like the start of a badly written love story that could have been something worth expressing but the writer lost faith in the plot or the protagonist took a 4 a.m taxi to another writer, a new story.
The kind that makes you get up, stumble through your hallway flicking on the bathroom light, standing in the mirror and staring at yourself and in your head you’re counting the scars, how each one got there and when, which ones are deeper and which ones are fading. Then you catch the person’s eye in the mirror and realise they’re not there but your heart makes them feel so real.
Eventually, you lay your battered self out to someone again. They see everything, they trace their delicate fingers along the deepest scars and they pay close attention to the ones that are fading. If that person is special and means a lot, they can do this almost magic thing. They can make the scars disappear.
Hold onto them.