sol.ace_r

For a long time, I believed the world had rejected me.
The morning light was so dazzling that I would rather stay in the dark,
and people’s laughter felt so distant that I could never reach it.
Back then, I was fighting the quietest war in the world—
a war against myself that no one could see.

If someone had told me then, “It’ll be okay,”
I probably would’ve smiled faintly.
Those words felt too far away, too light.
I couldn’t believe in the weight of “okay” anymore.
It sounded like a voice coming from another world.

Now I understand.
Back then, all I really wanted was to live.
Even through pain, exhaustion, and confusion,
somewhere deep inside, a tiny spark of “I want to live” was still burning.

Self-harm is not an act to show others.
It’s something you do while desperately hoping no one sees.
It isn’t a desire for destruction,
but rather the last signal of not wanting to disappear.
Instead of crying out “I’m here,”
it’s the body’s silent scream saying, “Please, see my pain.”

I understood that far too late.
At that time, I was punishing myself—
not because I had done something wrong,
but because I believed the world would never love me.

But now I know.
It wasn’t punishment—it was a cry for help.
A desperate form of “I want to live,”
bursting out from a place where no one could hear.

One day, I happened to look at the small scar on the back of my hand.
As time passed, the color faded, the skin healed,
and the mark no longer hurt me.
Looking at it, I thought,
“This isn’t a wound. It’s proof that I endured.”

For the first time, I felt a bit of peace.
I hadn’t run away—I had endured.
And within that endurance,
though there was despair,
tiny roots of hope had begun to grow.

If you’re reading this now,
perhaps your heart feels similar.
The world feels too big, and you feel too small,
and there are days when it’s hard to breathe.
Whenever that happened to me, I always thought,
“This is the end.”
But even in those moments I thought it was over,
I was still alive.
That was a miracle.
No one noticed,
but it was, without a doubt, a miracle.

Sometimes I think about it:
The word “wound” is such a gentle word.
Because it already contains the fullness of pain within it.
A wound is proof of life,
proof that we can still feel something.

A dead heart has no wounds.
So if you still feel pain,
it means you’re still alive.
It’s not a mark of suffering—
it’s a trace of life.

I no longer feel ashamed of my scars.
They are the patterns of the time I survived.
To bear a scar means
you’ve finished the fight and come back alive.
It’s not a defeat—it’s a sign of return.

People often ask,
“Why did you do that to yourself?”
“You didn’t have to.”
But those words always come too late.
In a world where judgment comes before understanding,
no one truly asks why.
They only look at the result.

So I want to ask you instead:
“How lonely were you?”
“How much did you want to be loved?”
“How many times did you hold back your tears?”

If someone could ask those questions with sincerity,
perhaps the world would be a little less cruel.

I’m still not perfectly okay.
Sometimes my heart collapses for no reason,
and the darkness comes back.
But what’s different now
is that I know how to find my way through that darkness.

It may seem like a small difference,
but that difference is what kept me alive.

Maybe you’re still lost in that darkness too.
But don’t forget—
the darkness isn’t there to swallow you,
but perhaps to help you find your own light.

I’ve realized something:
The desire to live always comes quietly.
It isn’t anyone’s cry or command.
It arrives softly,
like a faint breath left where tears have dried.

And I chose to believe in that warmth.
The world is still harsh,
but within it, someone writes for me,
someone listens to my story,
someone tries not to forget my name.

Just knowing that
helps me breathe again.

If you’re crying today,
it’s okay.
You can cry.
Tears are nothing to be ashamed of.
They mean you still know how to feel.

And someday, when your tears stop,
a small, warm sunlight will fall upon that place.
And in that moment, you’ll realize:
“Ah, I’m still alive.”

That one sentence
holds more power than any comfort in the world.

This writing may not be a perfect comfort,
but if, when you are deep in the dark,
it can offer even the faintest warmth to your fingertips,
then that’s enough for me.

I don’t know your scars,
but I know how lonely they must have been.
And to that heart, I want to say:

“You’ve already endured so well.”
“Now, please be a little kinder to yourself.”

Your scars are nothing to be ashamed of.
They are patterns only the living can carry.
May those patterns someday become someone else’s light.

And within that light,
may your pain become a little softer.

Please,
I sincerely hope so.