Scars Before the Bond

Have you ever found yourself questioning the very purpose of your existence—why you’re here, and what it all truly means? These thoughts don’t arrive in gentle waves; they crash into me like a midnight tide, merciless and unrelenting. Lately, they’ve been my constant companions, shadows that linger no matter how many lights I turn on. Perhaps it’s a sign I’m overdue for another therapy session, or maybe it’s something deeper, more immovable. I’ve always believed there’s no shame in seeking help; in fact, I wear it as armor against a world that demands we remain silent about our struggles. No one should ever feel embarrassed about needing support. My name is Lynaria Knight. I’m 28, but I feel centuries old, as though my soul has wandered through countless lifetimes. My skin is fair with olive undertones, prone to flushing when emotions surge, hazel eyes, shifting from green to brown, carry unspoken stories. A thin scar slices through my left eyebrow—a childhood accident that never quite healed. My wavy brown hair, usually tied back, frames a heart-shaped face marked by faint laugh lines that contradict the sadness lingering in my gaze. My body, curvy and soft, feels both armor and burden. Each curve speaks of battles with self-image, moments of surrender and defiance. I stand at 5'4", neither vanishing nor commanding, always oscillating between wanting to be seen and wanting to disappear. My hands, marked with faint ink stains from journaling, are steady even when my heart is not. My voice, low and husky, surprises people; it carries a quiet strength that belies the tremors within. Right now, though, a noticeable dip in my mood pulls like a heavy curtain over my mind. I know exactly why: I haven’t taken my medication for the past few days. Life has been moving like a violent storm, and in the chaos, I lost my footing. My prescription bottles stand accusingly on the counter, untouched, their labels almost mocking in their promise of stability. Yet again, I make no apologies for needing them. For me, they are not a crutch but a bridge back to myself, a quiet hand that pulls me from the undertow. My struggle with depression started young. I remember lying in bed as a child, staring into the darkness above, the ceiling dissolving into an endless void. The quiet of the night would morph into a suffocating silence, each shadow in my room a new terror. I often felt like an observer in my own life, disconnected, peering out through a frosted window no one else could see. Back then, I didn’t have the words to describe that thick, endless ache. It was a sadness too vast for a child to hold. There was a time, before my daughter, when I coped with the darkness by harming myself. Small, hidden wounds that felt like the only way to make the inside pain visible. But when I discovered I was pregnant, everything changed. I stopped immediately, as though a veil had lifted and a new light demanded my devotion. In protecting her, I began to learn how to protect myself. Then I got pregnant, and everything fractured and reformed. I was eighteen, standing on the precipice of my high school graduation, with my cap and gown hanging in my closet like a costume for a play I didn’t want to perform. I saw that plus sign on the test, and my whole world shuddered. I remember gripping the sink, my reflection warped and unrecognizable through my tears. When I told the father, his face twisted in horror, as though I had cursed him instead of sharing a life-altering secret. He slammed the door, leaving a void where a possibility had once existed. Despite the despair, I chose to keep her. Her. The word still feels sacred in my mouth. The first time I felt her kick, it was like a tiny lighthouse blinking in the fog of my mind. She was my reason, my axis. When she was born, and they placed her on my chest, I felt the tectonic plates inside me shift. At that moment, the universe and I struck a silent deal: I would not give up, because she needed me. And in needing me, she gave me a strength I never believed possible. Motherhood was a double-edged sword. It demanded everything from me — the last drops of my patience, my sleep, my sense of self. In the dark hours, when her cries split the silence, I would stumble to her crib, every nerve raw and buzzing. But each time, as I cradled her tiny body, an almost holy warmth flooded me, the love so vast and terrifying it nearly drowned me. After she was born, though, the depression returned like a storm breaking against fragile cliffs. The postpartum fog, the relentless weight of responsibility, the terrifying silence in between her cries — it all wrapped around me like a noose. Therapy, medication, and support groups became my lifelines. They were the ropes I gripped when everything else felt like quicksand. Even now, these are the things I turn to when the darkness scratches at my door. I started to get back to life and had to find a way to survive for both of us. I worked multiple jobs — waiting tables, stocking shelves overnight, cleaning offices — anything that would keep food on our table and a roof over our heads. Each shift blurred into the next, my body moving on autopilot while my mind clung to every smile and every milestone of my daughter. Between the exhaustion and the constant ache of missing her during long hours, I enrolled in online courses, driven by a determination I didn’t know I possessed. Slowly, through late-night study sessions and tear-streaked textbooks, I earned a degree in programming and cybersecurity. Every exam I passed felt like a quiet promise to her: that I would build us a better life, that I would never stop fighting for our future. If there was ever anything extraordinary about me, it was her. My daughter was my personal constellation, a cluster of lights guiding me through the blackest nights. Her giggles were symphonies, her touch was an anchor when the world threatened to spin away. She was my living, breathing second chance. Then one morning, she simply stopped. One moment she was spooning cereal into her mouth, milk dripping down her chin as she giggled about a cartoon on the TV. The next, she was gone. The universe folded inward, collapsing into an unbearable singularity. Grief swept me into a dimension where time lost all meaning. Days became endless loops, nights a spiral of empty echoes. I clung to her photos as though they were life preservers in an ocean determined to swallow me. Each image — her first Halloween as a tiny pumpkin, her paint-smeared hands, her cautious smile at preschool — was a universe of joy and sorrow, a thousand heartbeats frozen in time. Some nights, I hear her laughter echoing through the walls, so clearly I almost answer back. Tomorrow marks a new beginning, though I hesitate to even call it that. I’m moving to Black Frost Ridge, a small town so far removed from the map it feels mythical. Three hours away, hidden in a hush of pine and fog, it promises the anonymity I crave. There, I can become someone else or perhaps rediscover the version of me that doesn’t feel so haunted. Black Frost Ridge is the sort of place where time seems to slow, where every step echoes through narrow streets lined with antique lanterns and ivy-choked fences. Shops with hand-painted signs, wood floors that creak like old bones, the scent of rain and pine always lurking in the air — it feels like an invitation to slip into a quieter life. My new job at BFR Technologies promises stability, a concept I’ve only ever admired from afar. A stable salary, a house — a real house, with a porch and walls I can claim as mine — all of it feels unreal, as if I’ve stumbled into someone else’s dream. I imagine mornings with coffee steaming on that porch, the quiet hum of the town rising around me like a gentle tide. I imagine sleeping without the phantom weight pressing against my chest. Tonight, though, my reality is a battlefield of boxes and memories. My apartment is a graveyard of the person I’ve been, each corner an epitaph. Her photos are the hardest to pack. I spread them across the floor, my hands trembling as I trace her shape in each one. My tears blur the images, smudging the colors into soft ghosts. Packing these photos feels like trying to fold galaxies into cardboard — impossible and cruel. Finally, with an aching slowness, I place each photo into the final box. I hover over the flap before sealing it shut, my fingers reluctant to let go. When I stand, my legs protest, my heart pulses with a thousand silent screams. I’m not just leaving an apartment; I’m stepping away from the last fragments of who I thought I was. Every laugh, every whispered bedtime story, every breath I shared with her — they echo against these empty walls, a ghostly choir. I take a last look around. The room feels smaller, hollowed out by loss and memory. I flick the light switch off, the click echoing like a gunshot. I step into the hallway, the door closing softly behind me. Outside, the night is damp with the promise of rain. A breeze moves through the trees, and for a moment, I imagine her beside me, her tiny fingers wrapping around mine. I hear her voice, fragile and certain: “It’s okay, Mama. We’re going to be okay.” I take a deep breath, letting it fill every cracked piece of me. Tomorrow, I will drive toward something new — an uncertain horizon that might hold healing or more heartbreak. But tonight, I allow the ghosts to linger a little longer. Because no matter where I go, no matter how far I run, she is the star that will always guide me home.