For weeks, my face was covered in bandages. At first, I couldn't bear to look in the mirror. But as the wounds closed and the bandages came off, I had no choice but to face it.

My friends tried to cheer me up, calling it badass, even sexy in a mysterious way. I tried to believe them, but it was hard when strangers stared or looked away too quickly.

The healing process was slow and uncomfortable. Every morning, I applied the creams and ointments the dermatologist recommended, ensuring the skin stayed clean and hydrated.

But no amount of care could change the shiny, slick appearance or the harsh red lines that seemed to scream for attention. I knew they'd fade over time, but the thought of them never disappearing entirely sat heavy in my chest.

A woman settling into her window seat | Source: Pexels

At least I'd boarded early, avoiding the crowds. I slipped my headphones on, letting the music drown out my worries. Closing my eyes, I prayed for a peaceful, uneventful flight.

I woke up to voices. Loud ones.

"You've got to be kidding me," a man grumbled. "These are our seats?" His tone was sharp, like he was angry at the world.

A close-up shot of a grumpy man | Source: Pexels

"Row 5B and 5C," a woman's voice replied, clipped and impatient. "It's fine. Just sit down."

The couple settled into the seats next to me with a lot of huffing and shuffling. I kept my eyes closed, hoping they'd leave me alone. The man had a rough, gravelly voice. "I don't believe this. We pay for this flight, and this is what we get? Last-minute seats next to —" He stopped.