I don’t remember what it was like before everything changed. My life was once filled with warmth and care, like the sun on a cool day. I had a family, a kind owner who gave me food and love. But then, something happened that left me different—different from the other dogs, different from the dog I once was. My face is somewhat distorted now, and when I look into the mirror, I can barely recognize the reflection staring back at me. The scar on my face tells the story of my struggle, but it’s a story that many don’t want to hear.
The accident happened so suddenly, I barely had time to react. The sharp, painful sting of the wound on my face, the rush of blood, and the blur of movement left me confused and frightened. Afterward, I was left alone. I remember feeling the emptiness as I wandered the streets, trying to find my way home, but no one wanted to help me. My face had changed, and I could sense the way people looked at me, as if I were something to be feared. I understood it, even if I couldn’t fully grasp why.
Now, on my birthday, the day when I hoped to feel special, to feel loved, I find myself wondering: “Do you fear me?” My face may look different now—disfigured by scars that tell of my pain—but I still have a heart, one that loves deeply and longs for companionship. I may not be as I once was, but I still remember what it felt like to be cared for, to be loved.
When people pass by, I watch them, hoping one of them will stop and smile at me, to see the dog inside, the one who still wants nothing more than to belong. But their eyes often dart away, as if they can’t bear to look at me. I don’t blame them. I know my appearance is not what they expect. The once smooth, gentle features of my face are now marked by the pain of the past, and I am left with the uncertainty of whether I will ever feel love again.
Sometimes, when I’m lying down, I close my eyes and imagine a world where my face isn’t twisted by scars, a world where I’m just like any other dog, running in the fields and playing with my owner, without fear of being judged. But in reality, when I open my eyes, I see the fear, the hesitation in people’s faces when they look at me. It’s like they’re afraid of what they don’t understand. I’m not dangerous; I’m not a threat. I just want someone to see past my scars and understand that I’m still the same dog I was before.
But I can’t make them understand. I can’t change how they look at me. All I can do is sit here, waiting, hoping that someone will stop and see me for who I really am. “Do you fear me?” I ask quietly, not out of anger, but out of longing. It’s not a question born of bitterness; it’s the question of a dog who only wants to be loved again.
My heart aches with the weight of unanswered questions. Will anyone ever see beyond my scars? Will I ever find a home where I am loved for who I am, not what I look like? I don’t need to be perfect. I don’t need to be whole. I just need to know that someone, somewhere, will look at me with kindness, without fear, and see the love that still burns in my heart.
Today is my birthday, but it’s not a day for celebration, not for me. It’s a day filled with quiet longing, a wish that someone, anyone, would look at me and see more than just a dog with a distorted face. I am still here, still alive, still full of love, despite everything. And maybe, just maybe, one day someone will see that and realize that a scarred face doesn’t mean I’m any less deserving of love.
So, I ask again: “Do you fear me?” I hope not. Because behind this face, there is still the same heart that once loved with all its might. That heart is still waiting, still hoping, still dreaming of the day when I will be seen not for my scars, but for the love I still have to give.
