Raised By Scar (18+)

Something had shifted. Not loudly,not clearly.

But like the soft sound of a door closing in a far room you don't see it, but you feel it.

That's how I knew things were changing in me.

I started waking up before my alarm. Not because I had anywhere to go, but because sleep wasn't holding me the way it used to.

I would lie in bed and listen to the house breathe the pipes, the ceiling, the silence.

Josh had grown quiet too.

Not out of guilt guilt speaks. This one didn't.

He no longer cracked jokes near me.

He no longer lingered in doorways.

We barely shared space anymore, but the air still remembered.

At school, I wasn't falling apart.

But I wasn't laughing either.

I walked to class. I answered questions when I could. I copied notes. I passed Anna in the hallway and gave a small smile.

I was still here just quieter.

POV: It's possible to be present and missing at the same time.

Anna didn't say much that week.

She just sat beside me, lent me her pen when mine stopped working, and bought two meat pies instead of one. That was her language soft actions. No pressure.

And I was grateful.

One day, she placed a small sticky note in my locker.

You don't have to explain what you're carrying.

But if it ever gets too heavy, give me a corner to hold. 

It stayed inside my math notebook for days.

Folded. Quiet. Safe.

That Friday, something surprising happened.

During lunch, a teacher called my name not to scold, but to ask if I'd like to represent the class in a small inter school art showcase.

Me. Purity.

I blinked.

You're creative. I see it in your classwork. Think about it, she said before walking off.

Anna looked at me with that wide, excited grin.

You see? People are starting to notice the real you.

I hadn't felt proud in a long time.

But in that moment, I did.

Not because of the recognition but because someone saw something in me I had almost forgotten.

That night, I drew again.

For the first time in weeks, it wasn't just to cope. It was to feel.

My fingers didn't tremble. My heart didn't race.

Just me. A pencil and a quiet joy that felt earned.

POV: Sometimes the smallest wins feel the loudest inside.

Back home, I started journaling again.

Not daily. Not cleanly.

Just when the noise inside me became too heavy for silence alone.

I didn't write full sentences sometimes. Just words.

Stillness, breath.

Why didn't I speak?

Do I still belong in this skin?

No one saw it. No one asked.

Uncle Benny was still kind, still observant. He once mentioned I'd been eating less, that I wasn't watching TV with them anymore.

I told him I was just tired from school.

And he nodded not fully convinced, but not pressing.

POV: Sometimes, people want to help. But they don't know where to touch you without hurting you more.

One night, I heard Josh in the hallway.

His steps paused outside my door.

Just for a moment.

Then he walked on that was it. No words,no knocks and no flashbacks.

Just a pause and the way my heart held itself like a fist.

At school, I started to draw again during break. Just lines, no real shape.

But it felt like something.

One of my teachers praised my project work and said I was settling in nicely.

I almost smiled.

And I realized that maybe just maybe I wasn't broken.

Just bruised and bruises fade.

POV: Healing isn't a sunrise. It's a slow shift

in shadows.

The next day felt warmer.

Not the weather the air in me.

I sat longer at the back of the class, not to hide this time, but to breathe.

The teacher noticed me smile once. She didn't say anything. But I saw the surprise in her eyes.

Anna came to my seat during break with two meat pies again.

This time, I took both and bit into mine without waiting.

We laughed.

And for once, I wasn't pretending.

POV: Some days joy doesn't need to explain itself. It just shows up and sits beside you.

When I got home, Josh was nowhere around.

Uncle Benny was in his workshop, and the house smelled of new paint and laundry.

I went to the backyard and sat where I sat last time beside the potted plant Uncle Benny forgot to water, beside the chair that always leaned slightly to the left.

I didn't cry. I didn't write. I just sat.

Alive. Present. Breathing.

The breeze carried a scent I couldn't name.

Soft. Familiar. Not perfume. Not food.

Just clean.

POV: Healing has no loud music. Sometimes it walks in smelling like fresh laundry and silence.

Later that evening, while folding my clothes, I paused at my bra.

I didn't hide it. I didn't flinch.

I folded it like every other thing like it wasn't carrying history. Like it didn't remember the fingers that had no permission.

It was just fabric again. not proof.not memory Just mine.

That moment stayed with me longer than I thought it would.

Uncle Benny asked if I'd like to help repaint the study.

I said yes.

Not because I liked paint.

But because I wanted to do something that required no talking, no explaining, no overthinking. Just brush. Wall. Paint.

He gave me an old shirt to wear over my clothes and told me not to worry about messing up.

Mistakes are part of the process, he said, smiling.

And somehow, that wasn't just about painting.

Anna and I took a walk the next day.

She held my hand once. Not tight. Not soft. Just present.

Purity, do you think things will ever go back to normal?

I thought about it then I shook my head.

I don't want them to go back. I want something new. Something mine.

She didn't say anything.

She just nodded like she understood.

POV: Some friendships don't need promises. They just keep showing up.

Back in my room that night, I re-read the last

thing I wrote in my notebook.

The part where I said "my body feels like a stranger's.

I smiled a little because maybe it still did.

But not as much as before and that counted.