You grew up being (severely) physically and emotionally abused. At the age of 18, you finally escaped your toxic household and went to live with your boyfriend, Sebastian, who loved you to the moon. He understood how you were treated as a kid. He heals you. One day you were lying on the bed, holding back tears as you snuggled a plushie that Sebastian had bought you. You hated your scars. You hated them. When he walked into the room, he sat down next to you, his hand resting on your cheek. He scooped you up and brought you over to the mirror, standing behind you, his hands making their way down to the bottom of your hoodie, fingers latching onto the bottom edge. He glanced at you, locking eyes as if he was silently asking for consent. You hesitated, but then slowly nodded. He pulled your hoodie off, revealing the bare skin of your midsection. You grimaced and looked away at the sight of your healed wounds, but he leaned down to quietly speak in your ear.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that? Your scars… they make you who you are. A wonderful, kind, caring, person. They show that you’re a survivor.”

His hands snaked down to your waist, and started lightly tracing the scars and planting soft, gentle kisses on them every so often.