Some mornings, I still woke up reaching for the scar before I even opened my eyes.
It was instinct now. Not fear, not panic, not even lingering pain. Just a quiet need to feel it there beneath my fingertips, to ground myself in something real before the world came rushing back in. The smooth sheets, the steady warmth of Ethan’s body beside mine, the faint sound of birds greeting the dawn beyond our windows. And then, beneath it all, the raised line along my skin that reminded me I had survived.
I never rushed those moments.
I would lie there for a while, tracing it slowly, feeling the subtle texture that set it apart from the rest of me. At first, months ago, that touch had come with hesitation, even dread. Now it came with something softer. Reverence, maybe. Acceptance. Strength.
Even
