I just don’t recognize her anymore.

She’s right there. Right in front of me.

But the longer I stare, the more I see a stranger. And it scares me. I can feel it in my stomach. Is that what I feel in my veins? Racing through my body?

She’s nostalgic. A stranger I know too well. But no one knows her like I do. Her strengths, her flaws, her habits. No one knows. But me. She’s a stranger, but she’s my best friend.

People think cracks are messy, but she knows better. I know better. Scars are not wounds; they are roots and proof of trials and tribulations. Flowers grow from dirt, so why can’t I? I love my roots. Cracks and all. So why do they scare me?

I know why. Too many cracks, and a mirror breaks. Good thing it’s just a reflection. Because the cracks in my body, in my roots, they’re not glass, they’re roots, and if we know anything about the earth, it’s that roots are strong, and grow from dirt, just like me.

And what’s more beautiful than that?