sharp as the scars

in the quiet of a late night whisper, the door creaks, a heartbeats' echo in the stillness, where shadows dance with secrets, and the light reveals what was hidden beneath the skin. fingers tremble, the air thick with unsaid words, their eyes, pools of confusion, reflection of love, cracking under the weight of sorry. "why?" a question lingers, sharp as the scars, as they reach, not to scold, but to understand, the cradle the hurt, to mend what feels broken. in the silence, healing begins, not just of flesh, but of hearts, as they sit, not as a parent, but as an ally in the dark.