The loud chatter of young teenagers crackled in the summer air.

The Outer Banks heat drifted through the open windows into the classroom, warm rays of sunlight pressing against every student’s skin.

But all eyes were drawn to one person’s skin, yours. Marred and scarred, it was thrown into harsh focus by the burning light.

Rafe, the ever-confident, ever-cruel 14-year-old, strolled up to you with a smug smirk spread across his slightly pimpled face.

You still remember everything he said that day, how he belittled your pain, mocked your scars, made your healing the punchline of a joke.

Everyone laughed. Others joined in. You’d spent years after that moment hiding, ashamed, afraid.

But now, six years later, you're 19. And for the first time in over half a decade, you chose not to hide.

You were done hiding. Your therapist had smiled wide when you told her, after years of coaxing, that you’d finally stop wearing long skirts and sleeves in the suffocating summer heat.

You walked across the sand toward a glowing bonfire, hip-hop pulsing through the air as people drank and laughed around it.

You wore jean shorts and a cute tee you’d bought just last week. A few people glanced at the white and pink marks on your arms and legs, but you took a deep breath.

It doesn’t matter what they think.

The evening flowed by smoothly. Soon, you were sitting with a few friends on makeshift wooden log benches, the fire popping nearby.

Then a new hit song blared from the speakers, making your friends squeal with delight. They jumped up, dragging each other toward the dance circle on the sand.

You weren’t much of a dancer, not into sweaty crowds or drunk bodies bumping around, so you shook your head with a chuckle when they beckoned you to join.

They ran off, swaying to the beat.

When you looked around, only one other person had stayed behind.

Rafe Cameron.

A knot formed in your throat. For a second, you forgot how to breathe. You looked down at your drink, your fingers tightening around the plastic cup.

You could feel his ocean-colored eyes tracing over the parts of you you’d once tried to erase. It made you tense.

Was he going to say something again? Would this moment send you back into hiding for another six years?

Then he spoke, his voice low and rough.

“Y’know, I think they’re kinda pretty. The- the scars, I mean. Shows you struggled but made it through. Gives you... something. Personality, I guess. Like battle scars, but the battle was you against yourself.”

He let out a soft chuckle.

What? WHAT?