He studies me for a moment, thoughtful.
“Why do you have tattoos on one arm and not the other?”
My hand pauses.
I look down at my inked arm, tracing the familiar lines with my eyes before lifting my gaze toward the sky.
“All of these, I got while my mom was still alive.”
I glance at my bare arm.
“This side… is my life without her.”
The words hang between us.
He stops picking.
When I look back at him, something shifts in his expression—understanding settling in, heavy and quiet.
“Empty.”
I nod.
For a moment, we just look at each other, the breeze moving gently through the leaves around us.
“Will you ever get tattoos on your left arm?” he asks after a beat.
“Probably. When I feel ready to start over.”
He doesn’t rush to respond. Just gives me the space to breathe, staying close without crowding me.
We start picking again, the soft plink of berries hitting the bucket filling the silence.
“Do you have any tattoos?” I ask eventually.
“Just one.”
He lifts the hem of his shirt, turning enough for me to see the side of his ribs.
There, in small cursive letters, is a single name.
Elena.
I blink, surprised, and maybe a little too aware of the quick glimpse of muscle before he drops his shirt back down.
“Is that your mom’s name?” I ask.
“Yeah”
For a second, I stare at him. Then, without really thinking about it, I tug up my own shirt enough to show my side.
Right along my ribs, in simple typewriter font, is the nameHelen.
He looks at it. Then back at me.
“There’s no way,” he says.
I laugh first, a short, disbelieving burst, and then he laughs too, loud enough that it startles a bird out of the bushes nearby.
