Laying on the bed, that Saturday freezing morning wrapping everyone's mood. The sleeves of the sweater were slightly up, giving away the recent, burning, fresh scars on the wrists. The curious eyes of a girl show panic. "Oh, dear! What are those?!" she said sitting bold up. Our protagonist's (Who we will call the sweater person) face burned on a bright red. But due to the darkness of the room, it was barely noticeable. "Oh nothing, probably some accident while riding Hades," they said, remembering last day while riding their horse, figuring out a way of scaping the situation. The curious girl sighed. "Ok, But I'll tell mom so she can heal you." She said. The sweater person stopped her. "There is no need for love, I'm alright, promise you won't tell her." The agony on their voice was clear as crystal, but for the little girl, it sounded playful and mature. She smiled and nodded "Deal!" She said and left the room, leaving just one wondering human in the locked room. 

But what were those scars? Certainly, they weren't from horse riding, and of course, they weren't from any other sort of accident. They were war scars. Scars the protagonist won on one of their hardest fights. Fights against their worst enemy ever: Themselves. 

The sweater person accommodated their sleeves, covering the scars again, and swallowed their tears. They were warriors who still didn't win their fight. But hoped with all their might, to win it sooner than later.