She dropped her keys and began sobbing into my arms. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I couldn’t think of how to make her feel better, so I stood there and held her as she fell apart. For so long, I’d hated her because I thought she was Little Miss Perfect. I’d hated her happiness. I’d hated her because I had scars and she had none, and now I felt like a damn idiot for ever thinking such a thing. It turned out everyone in the world had scars. Everyone had cracks and cuts that bled into their soul each night. Some people were simply better at hiding them.
