Novel & Cerita Quotes On Emotional Scars

"What, is Mom not as important as some junk locket? You know what happens if her condition worsens." "I know." I cut him off, my voice cracking as I crouched on the floor. "No one knows better than me when she loses it." My old scars burned as I recalled it. Like a volatile child, she'd speak kindly one moment, and the next, brand me with a hot poker. The smell of scorched flesh haunted my nightmares. Andre fell silent, knowing how diligently I had cared for Evelyn, but a moment later, he hardened again. "I got it, you don't want her to get better."

Maybe because I don’t know what else to say. Maria lets out a quiet laugh. It’s not amused. It’s empty. “Scars don’t fade,” she says. Her voice is calm. Too calm. “The marks might clear from my skin… but not from inside.” She looks at me then. Not fully. Not directly. Just enough. “Not with the pain that was inflicted,” she adds quietly. “The scars can never be erased from one’s memory.” Something in my chest breaks a little. I don’t know what to say to that.

“I guess I can see what you’re saying, but this…this is too much.” “Good thing I disagree.” “No. Not a good thing. The thing with my scars as they are a symbol to me now. They’re a symbol to me that I survived some of thing horrific. What will your scars symbolize?” “It is my reminder that no matter how much it may hurt, never to turn my back on those that need me the most. To pay attention, and to show those that I love, that I do actually love them, at all times.” “But scars?”

To the scars themselves, my lips delivered a tender message of acceptance, acknowledging the pain they represented while also honoring the resilience they embodied. Each scar was kissed with the reverence one might afford sacred text, a testament to her endurance and fortitude. They were not ugly reminders of a cruel past, but badges of incredible strength, of a spirit that refused to be broken. The air around us became heavy with emotion, every breath filled with the weight of what we were sharing. It was a moment of profound intimacy, of shared pain and mutual understanding. Words were unnecessary, our actions speaking volumes about the depth of our connection. And as I continued to kiss h

I discovered that she occasionally simply needed time to gather her thoughts. At last, she paused close to the fountain, staring at the flowing water. Do you ever question whether we're simply too damaged to be fixed? Her question was hardly audible above a whisper. I responded without hesitation, "No." Startled, she turned to face me. I went on to say, "I think we've been through hell, but that doesn't mean we're broken." It simply indicates that we are scarred. And, Cath, scars aren't horrible. They serve as evidence that we lived.

"The scars on your face pain me to see, not because they are hideous, quite the opposite actually. They are a reminder to me that you were willing to sacrifice yourself as best as you could, to save my life. It pains me, because if I was strong enough, you wouldn't have had to do that. It angers me, because I hate that you did that for me. I also love them because it shows you care for me. Whether it is a platonic or, possibly, a romantic way, I don't care. Even if it's not because you care for me, but for others in general. I have treated you horribly and still, you risked everything for me and almost died in the process. But you didn't and you want to know why?" "Why?" "You. Are. A. Fighte

Then he added “Is it worth it, this big risk? Does the revenge worth it” “He took my parents, and my sister. I am alone, just me, only me against the world. What’s life without the ones our heart has always known how to love. I will kill him. Even if revenge is the last thing I do before I die” “I understand your pain, yeah, we all have wounds in our hearts, we all have scars, you should try to get over it,” I sniffed, I sniffed again, and again then I bursted into deep tears, whimpering my chest heaving. “Those scars can’t heal, it’s so painful”. He leaned forward and circled his hands over me. I cried in his chest, in his embrace.

"I know it's not rational." "It's completely rational," he says. "Given the evidence base you're working from." "I don't want to do it. I don't want to be the person who keeps waiting for the other shoe." "Then stop calling it irrational. Call it a scar. And let it be a scar." His voice is very steady. "Scars are allowed. They don't mean you haven't healed. They mean you were hurt and you survived it." A pause. "I'm in Seattle. The meetings are real. I'll be home Friday." Another pause. "And if you call me at two AM because something underneath all your knowing needs to hear my voice — I'll answer."

she said, her eyes tracing my upper body and I had trouble reading her expression because she didn’t seem unsettled by my half-dressed state. “Everyone has scars, some are skin deep while others reach beyond that.” “Soul deep,” she whispered. “Are you referring to yourself?” She watched me mop up the blood and brushed the shards into the dustpan then smiled strangely up at me. “I don’t think my scars will ever fade.” “They don’t need to fade.” I grabbed her hand and touched it to the scar above my bellybutton and her fingertips fluttered over my skin, her eyes wide with shock. “A knife went in there. The wound wouldn’t heal for a long time. For a moment, I was sure it wouldn’t heal at all, h

, I came out of my car and I wasn’t surprised when Scarlett came out wearing a long face. “You bitch!” She said as she walked towards me. “Can we do this later, I got work. Thank you” I said dryly and made to enter my car but she was fast to touch me by my hand. I quickly removed her hand from my body like it was a plague and looked at her angrily. “Never in your life, I repeat, never touch me with that hand you uses to give my dad a hand job” Scarlett looked pretty embarrassed as I said that but she was quick to cover it up with a scoff.