At our eighteenth birthday party, my twin sister tried to humiliate me in front of everyone. Nearly two hundred guests raised their phones. But the moment didn’t go the way she expected.

One of her closest friends started clapping.

Slowly.

Mockingly.

Another joined in.

Within seconds, the entire backyard echoed with a cruel, rhythmic chant.

“Take it off!

Take it off!

Take it off!”

To them, it was entertainment.

They thought I was just deeply insecure.

No one knew I hadn’t worn short sleeves in twelve years.

Inside the house, through the glass doors, I saw my father’s hand grip the handle.

He was ready to storm out and stop everything.

I met his eyes and gave the smallest shake of my head.

No.

Not this time.

The truth had been hidden long enough.

Every step toward Chloe felt impossibly heavy.

Phones were raised, recording, expecting my ultimate humiliation.

They had no idea what they were about to witness.

I stopped a few feet away.

Chloe smiled victoriously, certain she had won.

I held her gaze, then slowly untied the belt.

The knot loosened.

The robe slipped from my shoulders and fell silently onto the stone patio.

A deafening gasp swept across the yard.

Someone dropped a glass.

It shattered violently against the pool deck.

The chanting stopped instantly.

Every smile vanished.

From my collarbone to my thighs, my body was covered in thick, raised burn scars.

Deep keloids stretched across my ribs.

The uneven texture of my skin revealed the unimaginable injuries beneath.

For twelve years, I had carried a map of fire across my body.