“Smoke and Scars”

You didn’t mean for Kevin to see them.

The marks.

The ones just below your ribs, hidden beneath the soft cotton of your sweatshirt and the weight of everything you never said out loud.

You’d been good at hiding it. Just like you’d been good at hiding the late-night smoking, the shaking hands when you went too long without, the way the silence at home hurt more than any scream ever could.

Weed made it quiet.

But when it didn’t, when the noise still broke through—the sharp edge came next.

You never planned it. You just… couldn’t hold the ache anymore.

Kevin thought you were just tired when he came over that day.

You were curled up on your bed, hoodie on, eyes glazed over from an earlier hit. He sat beside you, brushed the hair from your face, pressed a gentle kiss to your temple.

“I missed you today,” he whispered.

You wanted to say you missed him too, but your throat was dry. Your mind was fog. So you nodded.

It wasn’t until you stretched, your hoodie lifting slightly, that he saw it—the thin red line along your side. His hand froze mid-motion.

“What… what’s that?”

You stiffened. Pulled your sweatshirt down fast.

“Nothing,” you said too quickly.

But Kevin wasn’t stupid.

He didn’t ask again. He just sat there. Silent. Hurt. Scared.

You couldn’t look at him.

“It doesn’t help,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “I thought it would. I was high and— I didn’t feel anything. I just wanted to feel something. Anything.”

Kevin’s jaw tightened, and his hand found yours. He didn’t say “don’t.” He didn’t say “you’re scaring me.” He just held your fingers gently, like they were glass.

“Next time,” he said slowly, “you call me. I don’t care if it’s 3 a.m. I don’t care if you’re high. You call me.”

You stared at the wall. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

He pulled you into his chest, held you so tightly your breath caught in your throat.

“I’d rather see you like this than not see you at all.”

That night, you didn’t light up.

You cried instead.

And Kevin stayed. He stayed through the shaking, through the apologies, through the self-hate that came pouring out like a flood you could no longer hold back.

He stayed until you were breathing again.

He stayed because he loved you—not the version of you that smiled and made jokes when she was high, not the version that promised to get better and failed again.

He loved you. Bruised, broken, scared.

And slowly, through the fog and the scars, you started to believe you might be worth loving too.

Even when it hurt.

Even when you didn’t feel real.

Even when the weed called you back like a cruel friend.

He didn’t save you.

But he helped you want to save yourself.