Sometimes you look for signs. For an indication. Other times you just know. There's no denying it. And at other times still, at other times you don't know what you don't know.
This is not one of those times. You asked if she was okay and see said yes. She didn't mean no, but she also wasn't okay. You wanted to help, but you didn't want to pry.
She's a hard kind of person to get a hold of. Most people don't know half of a story like hers. Most people wouldn't know where to start or where to end. But you know better. You know that a story like hers has no beginning and no end.
When you take her to bed and undress her, you don't see any scars. Her body is pristine. Soft and white, her cool skin blazes against her long black hair. You see past all this, and she doesn't know that you know. You can see it in the way she clings to you. You're always surprised at the strength she hides in those thin arms. The way she flexes them, squeezing tight around you, holding on to resist the urge for flight. She never clutches, she wouldn't, but you know from the way she holds you, she's afraid of being torn away.
Over all these years, she's never been as happy as you want her to be, but you've learned to accept it. You've given up trying to learn all the things you'll never know. It's enough, now, to know the scars are there. She'll tell you what she can, show you the things she can make you understand, but there are hidden parts, scar tissue that will always remain.
When she smiles you see those faint hints of sadness, etched by time into the contours of her skin, the colours of her eyes. It's part of her architecture. She's happy, though, and she knows you know it. For all your wishes that she could let the old pain go, she tells you, it's just something she can't let go. It's there, it's a part of her, and she's happy enough, she says. She's happy enough that she doesn't need to let it go.
