In Between The Lines
I saw her for the first time some years ago. She was a bright little girl, filled with enthusiasm and vigour, ever-so-ready to take on the world. There was something about her-the charm or the confidence-I couldn't decide, something made her irresistibly admirable. She was jovial and optimistic, a walking factory of happiness-always smiling and spreading love. Years later, I saw her again. She was taller and woman-like now but her face hadn't changed much. She smiled when she saw me, but it didn't reach her eyes. She looked glum. Is everything okay? I wanted to ask but she immediately looked away and my eyes fell on her bare arm. There were cuts- some fresh and deep, others were just scars, mere black lines mocking at her skin, proudly, as they stood out prominently. I was taken aback. Why would she hurt herself? She saw that I saw and covered her arm instantly, with the other hand and signalled to me that it was nothing. Was it, though? This time, she
