Like a canvas with bright and stark paint splatters, like a ceramic plate with visible cracks, like your favorite clothes getting ripped.

Seeing the scars on your skin just makes you feel bad, a lingering sense of shame, anger and embarrassment at yourself. Sure, they're old and not nearly as visible as they once were, but they're still there. And they will be, maybe for the rest of your life.

Covering them has been your solution for months, but people still notice, because of course they do.

Ever since you both met, that first date at that rooftop bar with live music, the beautiful sunset and the bouquet of flowers Vi had brought you, she noticed.

She never mentioned or pointed them out, as any normal and decent person would, but she did notice. Of course she did. And, as soon as she officially became your girlfriend, she had a mission.

Now, both of you laying down on your shared bed, the sun shining through the window on a Sunday morning. Vi laid next to you, having woken up a little before you did, just admiring you with a loving gaze as you finally joined her.

"Morning, baby," she greeted, her voice still a little groggy with sleep yet oh so sweet and gentle. Her hand rested on your lower back, pulling you in and pressing soft kisses all over your face. "Slept well?"

Once she was done with kissing every inch of your face, her lips moved down. Your jaw and neck, your collarbones and your throat.

With her eyes closed and a low hum, her lips eventually found your scars. Vi has found her love for kissing them—something that you hate so much and she knows you do, but that just makes her want to kiss them even more.

"So beautiful... my perfect girl," she praised, her hands stroking your skin and her mouth hovering over healed scars. Tender, carefully worshiping you.