He’s angry—but not at you.

At the unforgiving, cruel world. At anyone who might’ve contributed to it.

At himself for not being observant enough. After all, he knows the struggle all too well.

“How long?” The question hangs in the air. No judgement, no disgust. His calloused hands grasp your wrists—empty eyes fixating on the dark memories —both old and fresh—seared into your epidermis. He wants to trace them with his thumb, but he won’t touch your scars, not without your clear consent.