Dearest,
Dearest something shitty happened. Something really shitty.
He saw them.
He saw the scars.
It still makes me sick to think about.
I was changing, and I told him to turn around.
I was just changing jumpers, I had a shirt on, but I told him to turn around.
And I had taken off my jumper, and I just heard "Oh my god." In this small whisper.
And my heart just stopped.
And I have never felt as sick as I did.
I turned around to face him, my hands shaking. I felt so exposed.
"I told you not to turn around." I whisper, my voice shaking, hardly able to even force the words out.
"John, I..." The way he was looking at me... I had never seen that expression on his face before. And I never wanted to again. He looked at me as if everything had changed, as if he was disgusted, as if I was some kind of monster.
This is exactly what I was afraid of.
"I told you not to look." I said more firmly.
"John, what the fuck?" He said in such a broken voice, tears welling in my eyes, and dearest, I got pissed.
"What?" I snapped, "What's your problem, huh? Are you afraid to look at my scars? Disgusted? You think you're too good for me now that I'm 'damaged goods'?"
"I- Of course not-"
"Then don't look at me like that." I broke. "Look at me like you did. I'm still me, I'm still a person."
And it was a good second, a good second of absolute horror and tension, before he finally got up and hugged me hard.
"You could never disgust me, any part of you." He whispered, holding me tighter than I've ever been held before.
"But why... did you look at me like that?"
"I was just shocked." I wrap my arms around him. "You're my everything, nothing could ever change that." I press my face into his shoulder and cry.
And it just felt so nice.
I didn't put my jumper back on. I didn't feel the need to.
I'm the end I just sat I in front of him, between his legs, on his bed, as he held me from behind, his fingers tracing my scars.
And to tell the truth, it was my favourite feeling ever.
He is my favourite feeling ever.
"How long?" He eventually whispered against my neck.
"2 years."
"Which one?"
I guide his fingers softly to the inside of my wrist. He traced them softly, taking his time with my last scars, my suicide attempts, the scars I hated the most. He followed them all the way up to my hands, and held them softly, our fingers entwined.
"I'm so glad you're here." He buried his face into my neck.
"I love you." I whispered. I couldn't hold it back any longer.
He wrapped his arms around me, and I held them.
"I love you too." He whispered back, and I held him.
Just held him.
I'm still shaken.
But it was all so simple.
Your
John.
