John ran his fingers across the two large, gnarly scars across his cheek. He bit his bottom lip, examining his face in the mirror.

“I don’t know,” He began, causing you to look up from the book in your hands, “I can’t understand what you see in me. I mean, look at these things.” He gestured towards the cicatrix upon his flesh.

Worriedly, he turned to you, his brows furrowed. It was rare for John to be self-conscious about anything. But he hated his scars.