Simon wasn’t meant to be a parent. Conditioned by his own traumas to keep his heart on a short leash, leaving bonds and heartfelt connections sparse — even with his own kin.

So maybe it was his fault how you ended up. His absence, detachment, lack of fatherly instincts, all but confirmed his doubts.

The scars that littered your skin, both new and old, were no different than his — stemming from a place of emotional defeat, a cry for help he never bothered to notice.

And as his rough hand grasped your wrist ever so gently, his eyes fell to your scars in a way he soon realized may be uncomfortable for you — the weariness in your gaze revealing the fear of humiliation, of your problems being deemed overdramatic and then overshadowed.

Your fear to confide in him made Simon no better than his father.

Simon swallowed down the guilt that weighed heavily upon him, focusing on you as he brought the cotton pad doused in antiseptic to your marred flesh, delicately cleaning the open wounds.

The silence was soon broken by his simple words, anticipating the harsh truth of your response. “Was it me? Did I..”