Healing Scars

Silence. ‎It had become Laura’s closest companion — loyal, predictable, and merciless. ‎ ‎She didn’t remember when she started finding comfort in it, only that one day the quiet no longer felt suffocating. It felt… safe. It was the kind of safety that didn’t question her thoughts or demand explanations. The kind that didn’t talk back, didn’t hurt, didn’t lie. Silence simply existed — and in it, she found a strange kind of peace. ‎ ‎Her apartment had adjusted to her new rhythm. The curtains were often drawn halfway, letting in just enough light to remind her that day still turned to night. Dust gathered on books she no longer read, and the faint hum of the refrigerator filled the spaces where laughter used to live. She didn’t expect phone calls or knocks at the door anymore — not because she was forgotten, but because she had quietly erased herself from the world. ‎ ‎She liked it that way. ‎Or maybe, she just didn’t know how not to. ‎ ‎Every morning followed the same pattern: wake, shower, tie her hair back, and head to the gym. Not because she loved fitness, but because the rhythm of her heartbeat on the treadmill was the only sound that made her feel alive. It was like proof — See? You’re still here. ‎ ‎After the gym, she’d stop by the supermarket. She’d walk the aisles slowly, tracing her fingers along the cold handles of the freezer doors, picking out items she didn’t really need. The supermarket was her version of social life — surrounded by people, yet perfectly invisible. No one looked at her long enough to see the cracks beneath her calm. ‎ ‎Sometimes she took a walk after sunset, when the world turned quiet enough to match her insides. The streetlamps painted her shadow long and thin, stretching across the pavement like a ghost following its master. She watched couples pass by, laughter echoing in ways that made her chest ache — not because she wanted what they had, but because she once thought she did. ‎ ‎The air at night always smelled cleaner, freer. She would tilt her head to the sky, watch the moon hide behind clouds, and wonder if this was what freedom really felt like — or if it was just another version of loneliness dressed in peace. ‎ ‎Inside, her phone sat on the bedside table, lifeless and silent. The few friends she’d once had had stopped calling months ago. At first, they tried. They texted, they visited, they left voicemails filled with worry. But she’d stopped replying, and eventually, they understood: Laura Harrison no longer wanted to be found. ‎ ‎The world went on without her — and she didn’t mind. ‎ ‎There were nights, though, when her thoughts grew louder than her silence. Nights when she’d stare into the dark and ask herself if numbness was really healing, or just a slower kind of dying. She’d remember laughter — hers — bright and real, from a life that felt like it belonged to someone else. ‎ ‎She would remember him too. ‎Jonathan. ‎ ‎The name still carried a weight she couldn’t shake off. It was heavy, sharp, like a chain that rattled even in her dreams. She didn’t speak his name out loud anymore; doing so made the walls close in. But sometimes, she could still hear his voice, smooth and cruel, echoing through her thoughts. ‎ ‎> You always make me do this, Laura. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Her jaw tightened. The memory was enough to remind her why she loved silence. Silence didn’t hurt her. Silence didn’t twist her words. ‎ ‎She turned off the lamp beside her bed, letting the darkness wrap around her like an old blanket. The world outside her window was asleep, and in that stillness, Laura found her comfort — not in joy, not in hope, but in the familiar hum of nothingness. ‎ ‎She closed her eyes. ‎Tomorrow would be just like today. ‎And for now, that was enough. ‎