By Rida Aafreen
As I travel in the metro on a busy Monday morning, I stand there, watching the girl holding her books. I wonder if the world will ever cut as deep as the scars on her wrist, or if anyone has ever truly noticed them for her.
There’s an empty seat nearby, untouched. Not because no one needs it, but because a child, careless and carefree, spilled red paint over it. The paint stains remain, bold and defiant, taking up space that someone else might desperately need. But the child doesn’t worry. He doesn’t yet understand how even the smallest space can be sacred on a Monday morning.
A stainless steel bottle filled with warm tea brushes against my arm as the train jolts. It belongs to the man next to me, who grips it tightly, perhaps more for comfort than thirst.
Across from the girl with the scars sits a boy holding a bouquet of white and pink flowers. His eyes are red. Earbuds are tucked into his ears, and loud music spills into the silence around him, drowning out everything else. He stares down at the floor, tears quietly sliding down his face. Maybe, just maybe, if he looked up, he would see the girl with the prettiest curly hair. The same girl whose wrist carries a few perfectly straight lines. The kind of lines that say she has survived more than most people ever will. Maybe then he would realise the bouquet was meant for someone like her. Someone who holds silent strength in every breath.
But for that to happen, he has to look up. He has to stop mourning what is lost and notice what still remains. If he does, if he just lifts his eyes for a second, maybe the scars on her wrist would not feel so permanent. Maybe they would soften. Maybe the next time it hurts, it will not cut quite so deep.
The train slows to a halt.
Outside, the platform is teeming with anxious faces. Corporate soldiers, eyes dull with exhaustion, battling for a place in the metal box that carries them toward a life they’re not sure they chose.
They press through the crowd, fighting through slivers of space, clinging to the hope that maybe today will feel a little less heavy.
Maybe the tea will stay warm.
Maybe someone will notice.
Maybe, just maybe, someone will look up.