I need the courage to tell him. I don’t have the courage. If this relationship will work he has to know.

A plan forms in my mind, a bad plan, but a plan nonetheless. I do not pull on my t-shirt, remaining in just my shorts as I bustle around the kitchen.

The knock at the door is right on time, exactly 16:00, and I let him in, then, feeling my plan about to fail, go back on it, grabbing my t-shirt from the sofa, but not before he’s seen the scars that lace my torso like some intricate spiders web made of cotton strands and wooden planks.

He doesn’t move beyond the door for shock.

I act like I haven’t noticed and wait for him to say something, pulling the t-shirt over my head, and then, as his silence is upheld, I look in him the eyes, ‘What?’.

‘You… Your… What?’

I freeze, the words suddenly refusing to leave me, my body refusing to move, and now he moves a bit further into the flat, shutting the door quietly and coming up to me, cupping his hands round my face.

‘What happened to you?’

‘Noth- Don’t worry.’

‘Not worry about the fact that my boyfriend is covered in scars?’ He steps toward me.

‘More of a: not need to know what happened to your boyfriend.’ I still a trembling hand.

‘Look, you can talk to me. Always. I’m not going to push it, but…’ he lets his voice trail off.

‘And you’re fine with it. Still love me? Still staying with me?’ I can’t believe he would.

‘Always.’