For a moment, I hovered between accusation and understanding, my heart pounding louder than the quiet room. The mark on his skin wasn’t just ink; it was a doorway into a part of their story I had never entered. I had always seen her as my missing piece, the one who knew how to translate my silences, but I’d forgotten she had been his person, too, long before she was mine.
As my eyes traced the delicate lines of her initials, I realized how selfish grief can be, how it tries to hoard every memory, every claim of love. His tattoo wasn’t a betrayal; it was a wound and a vow in the same breath. Lying there beside him, I understood: love doesn’t end, it only changes shape, finding new ways to stay when the person who carried it is gone.
