“When it rains, they hurt.” Jason says, while you trace over some of the scars that line his back like a graphic novel. Some are new, others old and faded, and some- you can’t tell. There’s a distant look on his face, something you can’t quite place.

“Do they hurt randomly sometimes?” You ask, still gently running your hand over the scars, brows furrowing at the telling marks from lashes, or the clean cuts that hold whispers of blades.

“It’s like chronic pains. Sometimes, I can wake up and act like they’re not there. Other days, it hurts so much I can’t move.” He finishes, and you sigh. You draw your hand away for a moment, to look at the wounds that decorate his backside.

You’re assuming they’re gunshot wounds, the few that there are, one or two, look like tiny explosions across his back. There’s even a large pinkish scar over his shoulder, no doubt from a fire of some sorts.

“I’m surprised they didn’t scare you away.” He mumbles after some time.

“The scars, I mean. They’re ugly. My face, my arms, my legs. There’s not a space where they’re not there. Scattered all over like a sick metaphor for stars.” He said, noticing your confusion before you could even voice it aloud yourself.