Page 2 of Waiting for You

Drawing in a deep breath, I eased the machine off her skin and wiped the fresh ink clean.

"You're doing great," I said.

"Yeah?"

I hummed, shading the loop. "A lot of people want to negotiate the second the needle hits."

She let out a shaky laugh. "Does that ever work?"

"On the artwork? Never." I kept my hand steady, taking my time with a curve. "But I get the instinct. It's terrifying to sit in something painful and just let it wash over you."

"Did you ever try to negotiate?" she asked.

I cocked a brow. "With tattoos? Or in life?"

"Either."

"Yep," I replied, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. "But the things I fought hardest to dodge were the very things that needed to happen. You can stall what's coming, but you can't skip it."

She didn't respond.

I closed the outer loop of the infinity sign, checked the symmetry, and ran one final pass before turning off the machine.

"All done," I announced.

She straightened up and craned her neck to inspect her forearm.

"It's so… beautiful," she breathed, wide-eyed.

I bandaged the fresh piece and walked her through the aftercare gospel: keep it clean, don't pick at the scabs, stay out of the sun and the pool for two weeks. She listened carefully, cradling her arm a little away from her body, already serious about protecting the art.

"Did you do the one on your wrist yourself?" she asked, nodding toward me.

I glanced down at my left wrist. A thin black ring circled it, a closed loop I'd inked years ago, where the beginning and the end met at the same point.

"I did."

"Does it mean rebirth too?"

"It means I finished a chapter," I said, chuckling, "and started writing the next one."

She held my eyes a long moment, then tugged her sleeve down and headed to the front counter to pay. She thanked Reyna at the register twice before turning toward the doorway. But she paused and glanced back over her shoulder.

"No matter how much the next step hurts…" I trailed off, holding her gaze, "do it. You'll come out beautiful on the other side."

Flashing a tight smile, she gave me a firm nod and stepped out into the crisp afternoon.

I pulled my black sketchbook from under the counter, dropped back onto my stool, and flipped to a clean page.

From memory, I sketched her tattoo. Recreating a finished piece that way was the real test of whether the art carried its own weight or only worked on that one canvas.

This one begged to be put on paper.

I'd felt its meaning and lived it.

I built my whole life on that philosophy: choosing to start over and cutting away whatever had to go. This studio was my proof, with my name stretched across the glass, and my life savings bleeding into the lease.

I had no safety net from anyone who'd later wave the investment around as a favor I owed.