You took my jacket off but I clung onto it tighter. I picked the wrong day to wear a vest.

“I need to see if you scraped yourself,” you said with words ever so filled with worry. You always worried about me even when I constantly told you that I was fine.

And this time was no different. “I didn’t scrape myself.” I was fine. I was fine with this scrape. It wasn’t the first time I got hurt.

“You fell off of your bike. I don’t think you’re unscathed.”

“Really, I’m okay,” But the wince on my face gave me away.

“Please?”

You didn’t wait for my reply. And I didn’t hesitate this time. It was that look that always got to me.

I let myself be exposed. My bare arms, my bare skin, out in the open for you to see. The scars I’ve kept hidden were there for you to see.

I wait for your reaction. For you to cringe at my skin, at these scars that were my past, my shame.

But you didn’t. Instead, you tended to my open wound.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

“You don’t have to apologise,” I said. “It was my fault for not looking at where I was going.”

You replied with a smile. This was a different smile to your usual smile. This smile was laced with sadness and I knew then that you were apologising for something else.