You will come to understand that we were
A storm pausing to draw a breath, if only for a heartbeat.
Like shimmering waters cradled in the sea, like embers dancing in the wind,
You, who have just returned, you, who have never truly left my world.
You, who had been the deepest desire my heart ever knew, you who had reshaped the fibers of my being.
Like footprints whispered away by the tides,
You graced this place, and your essence shall endure.
And should the day come when you choose to wander,
The ocean will hold our melody close to its heart.
And when the wind carries you beyond the horizon,
I shall remain here, counting lonely seconds until your return.
November 21, 2020—Tel-Aviv,Israel—The Next Day
WhenLoganwokeup,it took a moment for reality to settle in. He didn’t even remember falling asleep, yet the crushing weight of the previous night’s events returned to him all at once. His body felt heavier than it had the night before, as though every ounce of him carried the weight of his unresolved emotions.
Logan hauled himself upright and moved into the sitting area, searching for his phone. His limbs felt sluggish, his mind clouded, but he sensed energy coursing through his veins. When he finally found the device, it was nearly dead, its battery hanging on by a thread. The moment he turned it on, a flood of missed calls, emails, and messages bombarded him, the notifications lighting up the screen like fireworks. Even as he held the phone in his hand, it buzzed incessantly with incoming calls.
Logan gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to hurl the thing across the room. Instead, he walked back to the bedroom, pulling his charger from the suitcase. With the phone plugged in, he grabbed his toiletries from the suitcase and headed to the bathroom. As the water ran, cold at first and then warm, he scrubbed the exhaustion from his face, brushed his teeth, and stepped into the shower. The hot water was soothing, but it did little to lighten the burden he carried.
Once he was clean, Logan dressed in a crisp blue button-down shirt and a pair of jeans. He grabbed his wallet and fully charged phone on his way out, determination hardening his resolve.
A plan had been forming in his mind since the early hours of the morning; an idea he couldn’t quite shake. It was crazy, impulsive even, but it felt right. The only problem was figuring out how to pull it offin a foreign country where the language was an incomprehensible maze. Luckily, he had Google at his side.
Within an hour, Logan found himself standing in the doorway of a tattoo shop he’d found online. The reviews were raving about the art of this place, and the website had showcased some incredible designs—a blend of surrealism and bold, intricate detail. Logan wasn’t one to be easily impressed, but even he had to admit that the portfolio was striking. A particular design, an ethereal phoenix rising through geometric patterns with the elements of raindrops and rainy clouds around, had been what drew him here in the first place. It was featured prominently on the website as a signature piece of the artist.
The shop was tucked into a quiet street corner, unassuming from the outside except for the bold, minimalist sign above the door that simply read: “Threads of Ink” and a pride flag hanging next to it. A small sticker near the door handle advertised that they sold exclusive merch, something Logan had already made a mental note to check out. He hesitated a moment before stepping inside, the bell’s chime following him into an intimate small shop that felt more like an artist’s studio than a tattoo parlor, with sketches and paintings lining every wall.
Logan felt himself drawn immediately to a wall displaying framed prints of the artist’s work. The designs were captivating—bold, surreal, and brimming with intricate details that pulled at something deep within him. He took a step closer to the desk where a display of glossy merch caught his eye. T-shirts, high-end skateboards with jaw-dropping art, enamel pins, and prints—each piece unmistakably the work of the same artist whose portfolio had led him here.
“Shalom,” said a voice from behind the counter. Logan turned toward a relatively short man with thick, unruly brown-red hair tucked into the hood of a sweatshirt featuring the shop’s logo. The geometric designs on the hoodie flowed in a way that made Logan certain it was custom-made. The man’s neckline was covered with a pattern of ink that climbed just to his jawline, and his bright hazel eyes fixed on Logan with a mixture of curiosity and warmth. “Eich ani yechul le’ezor lech?” he asked.
Logan blinked, utterly lost. “Uh… English?” he said, almost apologetically.
The man grinned, switching seamlessly. “Sure. Welcome to Threads of Ink, I’m Lucian, how can I help you? Do you have an appointment?”
“Not exactly,” Logan admitted. “But I was hoping you could make an exception. It’s kind of… an emergency.”
Lucian hesitated, his tattooed fingers hovering over the keyboard. His hands were mesmerizing, covered in striking black ink that extended down to his knuckles. “An emergency, huh? Let me see if I can fit you in. What are we talking about here?”
Logan launched into an explanation, detailing the design he wanted, the specific location, and even pulling up some reference photos on his phone. Lucian nodded as he listened, his expression shifting between thoughtfulness and intrigue.
Just then, the back door swung open, and a woman stepped out, speaking in rapid Hebrew to Lucian. She handed him some cash, exchanged a quick laugh, and left the shop with a wave, clearly a customer on her way out. Lucian smiled and called after her before turning back to Logan.
“Good timing,” he said. “Sasha just finished up. Let me see if he can squeeze you in.”
“Sasha?” Logan echoed.
“Yeah, Sasha. He’s the artist,” Lucian explained as he glanced toward the back door.
