I saw the fear in their eyes. But only in their eyes since they so cleverly hide behind a mask of indifference. But I see. I see all of the fear, fresh and young in their eyes.
But what did they fear?
They would glance at my wrists to purposely look for my scars and cuts. My watch slides down my arm, giving them a chance to see what they had been looking for.
They were the ones who wanted to see. So why are they so afraid? I casually push my watch up to my wrist to hide the scars. Embarassment and pride made me do so.
But the question still remains unanswered.
Why are they so afraid?
Did they fear my death? Did they fear that they might fall prey to depression as I have? Did they fear for me?
I will never know because my cowardice overpowers my curiosity. It always does. And it always will.
The fear lingered with them as they went through their day. They may laugh, but somewhere, at the back of their minds, they are thinking, thinking about the one with the scars.
