When I was twenty years old, my life changed in an instant. A gas leak in the kitchen turned a quiet evening into chaos, and when the fire finally died down, it left behind more than ashes. My face, neck, and back were marked by scars that no surgery or cream could erase.
In the mirror, I saw not just the burns but the life I thought I had lost. Friends tried to comfort me, but their eyes always gave them away — pity, curiosity, or quiet discomfort. The reflection staring back at me no longer felt like someone who could be loved.
