She stared at the mirror and her tired eyes lingered heavily at the stranger that looked at her.

Her stranger had tired, weak hair that was strangled into a tight bun. Heavy eye bags cling and pulled her face into a stiff, sickly mess of sadness. She wore a dirty hoody as if it were her second layer of skin.

‘You…’.

A static smile cracked itself onto her dry lips, as she scanned me.

She continued on in a dull desperate monologue

‘Why did you lose me?’

The girl smiled at her stranger.

‘You cannot always look at your scars’

The girl now had strong, healthy hair that blew on the breeze, like a handkerchief whispering and waving goodbye. Her eyes sparkled and shimmered with silent splendour. She still wore hoodies, hoodies would always be a part of her. But now, she had shedded her dirty signature hoody and she would wear a colour combination of hoodies. From red to blue or black to white.

She soon spoke and had her voice came out as a confident assertion, as she exclaimed

‘I can’t always look at my scars and I can’t always look at you my stranger.’