Page 86 of Ruin My Life
“I have something else for you,” she says, reaching into her bag. She pulls out a small bottle and hands it to me.
Advanced Scar Gel.
I stare at the label, unsure how to feel.
“You think it’ll scar?” I ask, quieter than before.
“Not likely,” she says. “But... I saw the other creams you’ve tried. This one’s better. Works well on both new and old scars.”
My lips press into a thin line. I glance up at her.
Her expression doesn’t change. Still calm. Still kind.
But she knows. Iknowshe knows.
“You know who I am,” I murmur. I don’t even bother to phrase it as a question.
Her smile falters just slightly, and she nods. “I had a hunch when you told me your name.”
I feel like the floor’s tilting again.
“I sat in the viewing room,” she continues gently. “During your surgery. There were... whispers. Some true. Some not.”
My chest tightens, breath catching painfully in my throat. “I’d really rather not talk about it,” I say, my voice shaking slightly.
She raises her hands in surrender. “And you don’t have to. It’s your story. Not mine. But...” her voice softens even further, “as a nurse, I do feel obligated to ask—are they healing okay?”
I hesitate. Then shrug.
“They’re healed... fine, I guess.” I glance down. “They’re just ugly scars now.”
Dahlia nods once. No pity in her gaze, just calm understanding.
“Reminders.”
She says the word like it holds weight. Like it matters.
It hits me harder than I expect.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
She reaches out and places her hand gently over mine. Her skin is cool, her grip light—but steady.
“You may never get rid of them entirely,” she says. “But the memory... it’ll heal faster if you learn to see them as proof of your strength instead of a mark of shame.”
The words land like a punch to the ribs.
My throat tightens. I nod, but I can feel the pressure building in my chest, threatening to rise—to escape.
“If you ever need me to take a look at them,” she adds softly, “or for any other reason... just call.”
I follow her out of the bathroom, keeping quiet while she gathers her things. The silence stretches—heavy, but safe.
When the door opens, I hear Chavez’s voice down the hall. Dahlia steps out and says, “She’s going to rest now. Please don’t disturb her.”
It’s the kindness in her tone that undoes me.
Not the command—the care.
