I laid there breathless, my skin clamped with sweat, my thoughts jumbled up by your kisses, by your movements. In this bed that we shared, I reciprocated you.

I held you close, skin to skin, my senses at their peak. I could hear your breathy voice in my ear. The scent of your hair, a wonderful mix of grapefruit and rose buds, wafted through my nose. Both leaving me in a frenzy.

This course of ecstasy stopped, to my dismay, and you laid next to me, the sweat on your forehead aglow from the streetlight that filtered through our misty windows. You took my arm and held it up for you to see.

I could make out your expression: a pouty frown, distressed and concerned. You the scars very gently with your soft touch and I felt my insecurity rise up.

“Don’t take your hand away,” you said. The firmness in your tone was thick yet it still felt tender to my ears. “Don’t be ashamed of them.”

I could only look at you. I didn’t know what to say.

“I have scars too,” you continued. “In here,” you said, pointing to that part just above your exposed chest. “We all have scars.”

And it didn’t occur to me until then that amidst your flawless skin, your perfect hair and your sweet personality, you were imperfect and I didn’t mind it.

It made you relatable.

It made you human.