The first time Emily noticed the scars was during gym class. Zoe's sleeve slipped as she changed, revealing several parallel pink scars along the inside of her left arm. Emily pretended to tie her shoelaces, but her eyes couldn't tear away from the marks. They looked like some sort of mysterious symbols—neatly arranged on pale skin, both jarring and strangely beautiful.
"Seen enough?" Zoe suddenly spoke, her voice eerily calm.
Emily jerked her head up, meeting a pair of ink-black eyes. She opened her mouth but couldn't make a sound. Zoe didn't wait for a response. She pulled her sleeve down and walked toward the field as if nothing had happened.
That night, Emily lay in bed, those scars haunting her thoughts. She tossed and turned, her fingers unconsciously brushing the inside of her own left arm, where the skin was smooth and unmarked. She imagined the moment a blade cut into flesh—how much would it hurt? Why would anyone do that?
The next day at lunch break, Emily heard muffled sobbing from the farthest stall in the girls' bathroom. Holding her breath, she peeked through the gap below the door and saw a familiar pair of canvas sneakers—Lena's. Lena was the quiet girl who always seemed like a shadow.
She heard the faint clink of metal, followed by a sharp, almost inaudible gasp. Emily felt dizzy. She knew that sound. She should have walked away—but it was like her feet were nailed to the floor. A few minutes later, the toilet flushed. Lena stepped out, pale as a ghost, her right hand gripping her left wrist tightly.
Their eyes met in the mirror. Fear flickered in Lena's gaze, quickly replaced by something else—a strange defiance. She deliberately slowed her movements while washing her hands. Water ran over the fresh red lines on her wrist, turning pink as it mixed with blood in the sink.
"Are you okay?" Emily heard herself ask, her voice dry and unfamiliar.
Lena flicked the water from her hands, droplets hitting Emily's face like ice. "Perfect," she said flatly, then walked away, leaving Emily alone, staring at her own unmarked wrists.
That night, Emily stood in the bathroom for a long time. She took out her father's razor blade, carefully unwrapped it. The metal glinted coldly under the light. She ran her finger along its sharp edge, her heart racing.
"Emily? What are you doing in there? Hurry up, I need the bathroom!" Her mom's impatient knock made her nearly drop the blade.
"Just a minute!" she called back, frantically hiding it in a drawer. Her heart pounded wildly.
In the days that followed, Emily found herself unable to stop watching the "special" girls in her class. They looked like everyone else—taking notes, joining clubs—but Emily now knew their secret. The ones hidden under long sleeves and chunky bracelets.
On Friday afternoon during study hall, Zoe passed her a note: "Rooftop after school."
Emily's heart skipped a beat. She had never been alone with Zoe, wasn't even sure Zoe knew her name. She spent the entire class squirming, her pencil tracing meaningless lines in her notebook.
When the final bell rang, Emily deliberately packed her bag slowly, waiting until the classroom emptied. She climbed the stairs to the rooftop. The iron door was ajar. As she pushed it open, a gust of wind hit her. Zoe stood at the railing, back turned, her school jacket flaring like wings about to unfurl.
"You came," Zoe said without turning around.
Emily stepped closer, unsure of what to say. The silence between them was filled only by the howling wind.
"Why did you follow Lena into the bathroom?" Zoe suddenly turned, eyes sharp.
"I… I didn't follow her. I just…"
"You want to know why we do it, don't you?" Zoe pulled up her sleeve, revealing a mass of scars—some pale and old, others fresh and pink. "Want to try?"
Emily's mouth went dry. She should've said no, should've denied any curiosity. But something strange inside her made her nod.
Zoe smiled and pulled a small silver blade from her pocket, its surface flashing in the sunset. "Best to start somewhere no one will see," she said, placing the blade into Emily's palm. "The inside of the thigh works well."
The cold metal sent a shiver through Emily. She stared at it, feeling an inexplicable pull.
"Why… why do you do this?" she finally asked the question that had been haunting her.
Zoe's gaze became distant. "Because sometimes, the pain inside is worse than anything you can feel on the surface," she whispered. "But when you cut the skin, when you see the blood—everything becomes real. You know where the pain is. You know how deep it goes. And you know, someday, it will heal."
Emily stared at the blade, and something clicked. She thought of her parents' constant arguing, the way they looked at her like she was a beautiful but lifeless object. She thought of the hollow feeling in her chest that woke her up at night.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"At first," Zoe tilted her head. "But then… it feels like a release. Like you can finally breathe."
That night, Emily locked her bedroom door. She pulled the blade from her backpack, took a deep breath, and lifted her nightgown. Her thigh was pale. When the blade touched her skin, she felt a sting—and then the warm trickle of blood down her leg.
Strangely, she wasn't afraid. Instead, a strange relief washed over her. Just like Zoe said, all the unspeakable pain had found a form—in that thin red line, in that one perfect droplet.
The next day, Zoe smiled at her in the hallway—their first smile. During lunch, she brought Emily to an abandoned classroom behind the school. Lena and two other girls were already there. Like some secret ritual, they each revealed new scars, sharing blades and band-aids.
"Welcome," Lena said, handing Emily a piece of chocolate. "Something sweet—for the blood you lost."
Emily felt a strange sense of belonging. Here, she didn't have to pretend everything was fine. Here, they all carried invisible wounds—made visible on their skin.
Weeks later, on a rainy day, Zoe didn't show up at school. Emily texted her and got only a vague reply: "My stepfather came back."
When she saw Zoe the next day, her left wrist was wrapped in thick bandages. She looked pale. During lunch, she pulled Emily to the abandoned classroom and unwrapped it. This time, it wasn't thin lines—it was a jagged gash, stitched with over a dozen stitches.
"This is too much!" Emily's voice shook. "You need to tell a teacher—or the police!"
Zoe's eyes turned vicious. "Shut up! You don't know anything!" She shoved Emily hard, knocking over a desk.
Emily fell, stunned, watching as Zoe broke down in sobs. In that moment, Emily finally understood: the pain behind those scars wasn't teen angst. It was something deeper, darker.
"What… what did he do to you?" Emily asked, trembling.
Zoe curled into a ball. "I was nine… the first time he came into my room…" Her voice was barely a whisper.
Emily felt like vomiting. She crawled over and hugged Zoe. On the cold floor, the two girls held each other and cried. Zoe's tears soaked into her shoulder, and Emily felt the truth cut through her like a blade.
"We have to tell someone," Emily said, firm. "This is wrong, Zoe. This isn't your fault."
Zoe shook her head, her eyes hollow. "No one will believe me. My mom chose to believe him, not me." She pointed at the oldest scar on her arm. "This was after I first fought back. He said I was lying. That I was filthy. So I decided to really become filthy."
And suddenly, Emily understood it all. The cuts weren't just self-harm—they were silent screams, self-punishment, a way to give pain a shape. She held Zoe tighter than ever, a resolve building in her chest.
She couldn't stay silent any longer—even if it meant tearing down the secret world of scars they had built together.