... Don't get so worried. Most of them are old. [ Silvery and unhealed, long scratches that have cast thin and raised lines, places on the skin where the wounds mottled, jagged and uneven. ] You'd only know some of them were there with your fingertips. That's how long it's been for me.

[ Nothing painful in them anymore, whatever it meant to be bleeding and alone and afraid that he'd die just a distant memory now. ]

I like having them. If you think about it, we match.

[ Tartaglia admits his guilt to these offenses, the uselessness that comes with wanting to live so badly, even ruined and warped. Selfishness exists in everything he does, in this reversal with his hand draped on Mira's face and how his voice suffers so badly for the proximity to their scar. Too much vulnerability to confront here. ]

Can I take the rest of it off?

[ Is it alright if he lowers his guard and shows them everything? ]