“Don’t let them bother you,” Chloe whispered fiercely, leaning down to press a soft kiss into my hair. “You’re the most beautiful person on this whole beach, Maya.”

“I know,” I smiled, leaning into my sister’s gentle touch, closing my eyes and feeling the profound, healing warmth of the sun on my bare skin for the first time in my adult life.

Society had told me to hide my scars. It had told me that damaged skin was ugly, that trauma should be covered up, that perfection was the only acceptable aesthetic. For twelve years, I’d believed my body was a grotesque secret that needed to be locked away in the dark.

But as I lay there on the sand, listening to the breathing of the twin sister who loved me with absolute, unwavering devotion—a sister who was only breathing because of the tissue covering my spine—I understood the profound, unassailable truth.

My scars weren’t a disfigurement at all.

They were the braille of my survival. They were a physical, undeniable love letter written in fire and flesh, proof that I had stared into the darkest, most terrifying abyss, fought the flames, and won. They were the crowns of my victory, and I would never, ever hide them again.