Wounds Without Scars..

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Not all pain bleeds. Some wounds don’t bruise, don’t scar, don’t scream — but they stay. They linger in the soft places between our thoughts, in the quiet of sleepless nights, in smiles that hide too much.

The Invisible Ache

Elena smiled like she’d never been hurt.

The world saw her as radiant, composed — the girl with answers, laughter, perfect posture. But no one noticed the way she inhaled a little too sharply before speaking. Or how her fingers sometimes trembled when silence lasted too long.

To them, she was whole.

To herself, she was a mosaic held together by invisible threads.

Where the Pain Lived

Her trauma didn’t wear a name tag. There were no hospital records, no bruises, no visible war. Just memories. A hallway. A slammed door. A voice that once felt safe, now echoing in her head like thunder in a cathedral.

She would wake up sometimes with her heart racing, drenched in sweat, choking on nothing. Not from nightmares — those had stopped. It was the silence that haunted her now. The absence. The way the world moved on.

Grief, she had learned, wasn’t always loud. Sometimes it was a quiet detour off the usual path of living. And she had taken that turn long ago.

The Mirror Doesn’t Tell

When Elena looked in the mirror, she saw no scars. Just skin. Just eyes that had learned to perform strength.

But inside her? A collage of broken memories stitched back with borrowed hope.

There were things she couldn’t say — not because she didn’t want to, but because the world wasn’t built to hear them. Because when pain isn’t visible, people doubt it. They ask you why you're still sad, why you flinch when someone raises their voice, why you always say "I’m fine" like it’s a reflex.

And so, she became fluent in survival.

The Boy with Quiet Eyes

One day, she met someone — Adrian — not loud, not remarkable at first glance. But his eyes didn’t look at her, they looked into her. He spoke softly, as though afraid his words might break something delicate.

He never asked her what was wrong. He just listened to what wasn’t being said.

Over time, they shared silences instead of stories. Shared walks without needing conversation. And one day, she whispered a memory into the dusk — a single line that unlocked the doors she'd long kept shut.

He didn’t try to fix her. He didn’t say “you’re strong” or “it’s all in the past.” He just said:

“That sounds heavy. You’ve been carrying it alone for a long time.”

And in that moment, she cried. Not because she was weak — but because someone finally saw her wounds, even without the scars.

The Healing We Don’t See

Healing didn’t arrive like a miracle. It came slowly — like water shaping stone. In missed calls returned. In unfinished poems finally written. In the moment she realized she no longer winced at a certain song.

She still had dark days. Still had moments when fear pressed against her like fog. But she was no longer hiding from herself.

Pain had shaped her, yes. But it hadn’t defined her.

To Those Who Feel the Same

If you’re reading this and you carry pain without bruises… know this:

You are not imagining it.

You are not overreacting.

You are not broken.

You are surviving something the world may never fully understand. And that in itself is a kind of strength most will never know.

Some wounds never scar, but they are real. And so are you.

WRITER: HAMID KHAN

THANKS FOR READING

THE END