I sink down in the chair beside him to his left, reaching for his hand. He takes mine and squeezes softly. “Hi,” he says with a simple smile.
“Hi,” I reply. “How’s it feel?”
“Like nothing,” he replies, but I watch him wince as Holly’s eyebrows arch.
I grin. “Need a story?”
“Sure.”
“It’s about a girl.”
“Sounds promising.”
“Who loved a boy,” I add.
“Love it already.”
“But forgot how to love herself.”
Milo looks at me more earnestly now. “She probably should have asked the boy what he loved about her. To help jog her memory.”
I tilt my head. “What would that boy have said?”
“That he loved how she had a heart for others, even when she cried for days over a fake character in a book.” His thumb circles gently against my hand.
I smile. “Fake people matter, too.”
“And that he loved how she gave all of herself when she did something. She never did anything halfway.”
I laugh. “You’ve got to jump in with both feet.”
“And that she loved fiercely,” he continues, his gaze warm on me. “Not carefully. Not with a safety net. Fiercely.”
I swallow.
“That was never the problem,” he adds quietly. “She just forgot she was allowed to be one of the people she loved like that.”
I stare into Milo’s eyes intently for several long minutes, and his eyes never leave mine. For some, this type of eye contact would feel jarring. For me, it feels like Milo’s anchoring me to truth.
The buzzing stops.
“Done,” Holly announces as she wipes off Milo’s skin, blood on the paper towel.
Milo sits up, his eyes finally leaving mine to look at his newly inked forearm.
I stand, leaning up against Milo to see what he chose, never dropping his hand.
It’s a compass.
Something twists within me, because this tattoo doesn’t just feel like it’s about Milo.
“Why’d you pick this?” I whisper.
Milo studies it for a moment, like he’s answering the question for himself first.
“Because I want to be reminded of what matters, what direction my choices are leading me to,” he finally says.
He flexes his forearm slightly, the dark lines of the compass settling into his skin.
