Her expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across her face. “It’s about... keeping going. When you’re alone.”
The weight of that admission hangs between us. She’s been alone with this. Her mom, the move, everything.
“You’re not alone here,” I say, and mean it.
She turns away, busying herself with something on the table. “See you Monday, Roman.”
I leave before I say something else stupid, but the image of that tattoo and the fragments of words stays with me all day.
The group chatblows up within minutes.
Pucks
Rodriguez
CAP SAW HER TATTOO AND FORGOT HOW TO FUNCTION
Bro literally stopped breathing
Dex
His brain shut down. Full system failure.
Brody
In his defense, Doc’s ribs are... educational
Jake
You’re all children
I hate all of you
Rodriguez
That’s not a denial
Dex
He’s thinking about those ribs right now. Guaranteed.
Brody
Probably googling song lyrics trying to figure out what it says
I close the chat without responding, because Dex is right and I’m not giving them the satisfaction.
But later that night, I’m sitting in my kitchen with my phone, typing fragments of what I remember into a search engine like some kind of stalker.
“Waiting” and “heart” and “alone.”
Nothing comes up that feels right.
I try different combinations. Still nothing.
Which means it’s either obscure, or she had it custom written, or I’m a fucking creep for trying to decode her body art like it’s some kind of puzzle meant for me to solve.
I stare up at my ceiling.
