Needle

I went to get our matching tattoo covered. The artist told me my ex had been in last week.

We got them in Brighton, on a rainy Saturday, six weeks into dating. Tiny, delicate, a little crescent moon on the inside of our wrists. "So wherever we go, we're under the same sky." He said that. With a straight face. I cried.

His name was Kieran. We lasted fourteen months.

I know, I know. A tattoo for someone who's gone. Great decision-making, past me. But you don't think about endings when you're nineteen and happy.

So I booked a cover-up. A bigger, darker design. Flowers, maybe. Something that makes the moon disappear.

The artist, a woman with sleeve tattoos and a calm voice, took my wrist and turned it over under the light.

"Funny," she said. "I did the same piece last week."

"Sorry?"

"Same moon. Same size. Guy came in, said it had faded a bit and he wanted it touched up."

My mouth went dry. "Touched up?"

"Yeah. He said it was important it stayed sharp."

I sat there, sleeves rolled up, heart pounding.

I'd come here to erase mine.

He'd come here to keep his.

I didn't book the cover-up.

I just paid for the consultation, walked out in the rain, and pushed up my sleeve.

The moon looked brighter than I remembered.