You never thought anyone would notice. Hell, you never thought it mattered.
It started small (doesnât everything?), with an idle nick on the underside of your calf. Not the wrists, because that was too easy; that meant you were seeking attention, the internet said, and you werenât, damnit. Attention was never your goal. This wasnât some weird cry-for-help.
You just wanted the hole in your gut to feel a little less empty.
It grew from there, though. You found out why people preferred their arms: it hurt more. After a few weeks, you just started wearing long sleeves. Nobody ever questioned it. It was the beginning of fall. Why would anybody question it?
Hell, for them to question it, theyâd have to notice you were there first.
Some days, you wished you werenât. Some days, it didnât seem worth it. You got up, you went to school, you fought your way through class, you ate lunch alone, you struggled with your homework, you came home. You locked the door behind you when you woke up, you unlocked it when you got off the bus.
On those days, the blade dug a little deeper.
You saw your Bro less and less, because he never checked your room, and you rarely left it. There were raps to write, and stories to get lost in. There were movies to watch. There was not a single fucking reason for you to interact with the outside world.
Every day was the same. Youâd fit your key into the lock, the door would click open, and youâd call into an empty house. âBro, you home?â
He never was. Work, he said.
Always work. Always something.
Until the day it wasnât anymore.
Until one day you came home, and you barely got the word âhomeâ out of your lips before your brother was crushing your form against his chest, hugging you so tight you couldnât breathe, whispering choked apologies into your ear, ragged promises that heâd be there for you, that he was always there for you, that he was so goddamn fucking sorry heâd ever let you feel like you were fighting against the world alone.
You think about denying it, about laughing it off.
He yanks up your sleeve, fingers playing over old scars, fresh wounds.
Heâs there as you sink to the floor, his arms strong around you. He asks you what you need, his voice full of anxious concern, and you tell him this, just this, because all youâve ever needed is someone to be there when youâre weak, to hold you when you canât stand, to be your backup when the world is too much.
He asks you why you didnât say anything, and you shrug helplessly. What was there to say?
âAnything,â he says. âAnything at all.â
You shake your head. âThis,â you say, gesturing at your scars, âWas never a cry for help.â
âYes it was,â he answers. âYou just didnât realize it.â
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