“The Scar That Says No One Cares”

I remember the fall. It wasn’t graceful. There was no time to catch myself, no moment to laugh it off. Just the sharp sting of skin tearing, the heat of blood spilling, and the ground pressing its cold truth against me. Both knees open. Both knees bleeding. And still, I got up.

Because the kids were waiting. Because life doesn’t pause just because you’re hurt. Because in that moment, I knew that my pain wasn’t going to matter to anyone but me. So I walked. Step after step, the sting deepened. My skin throbbed with every movement. But I kept going, my smile fixed for the children beside me. Not once did anyone notice. Not once did anyone ask if I was okay.

I told myself it didn’t matter. That I was strong. That I could handle it. That needing help was a weakness I couldn’t afford. But deep down, there was a heavier ache than the one in my knees — the ache of realizing how invisible pain can make you.

Now, there’s a scar. It’s small, pale against my skin, but it’s there. A permanent mark that no one else will think twice about. But I see it, and I remember. I remember the day I bled in silence, the day I learned — again — that sometimes, people don’t care enough to see you hurting.

It’s strange how a scar can speak louder than words. This one says: You were on your own. This one says: You had to keep moving even when it hurt. This one says: No one came.

And maybe that’s the real wound — not the skin that tore open that day, but the part of me that still wonders what it would feel like to be noticed.