Beneath the skin

It started maybe with a brush of her hand when passing him the appointment book. Their fingers touched, a fleeting connection for half a second too long. He flinched she didn’t.Later she spoke - voice low, almost brittle.You tattoo people’s skin. But do you ever draw for yourself ? He didn’t answer. How could he explain that his sketchbooks were full of faces that looked too much like his mother when she left, and shadows that whispered things he couldn’t unhear?

Instead, he said I don’t draw anything that doesn’t bleed.She blinked once, and for the first time, he saw it a crack. Something fragile behind her iron hard gaze.

He started to wait for her.It wasn’t conscious at first. He’d clean his station slower, reorganize needles that were already organised , pretend to be busy until the bell above the door rang at 6:02 PM.

When she didn’t come one evening, he stared at the door like it had betrayed him.

He hated himself for it. She’s not yours. She’s not even interested in you. Don’t be pathetic.But when she showed up the next day with a split lip and silence thicker than tar, something in him cracked.He didn’t ask what happened.But that night, he stayed late and sketched her face for the first time eyes fierce and hollow, jaw tense like she was at war with herself and losing. They didn’t talk much. But when they did, every word felt like it mattered. Not rude just honest.I think you’re scared of being loved,she said one day, out of the blue.

He looked up from his ink tray, raising an eyebrow.I think you’re confusing pity with insight,” he said.She didn’t look away.

Maybe she said. “But you always pull back when someone tries to really see you. That says somethingThe shop was closed. Rain pounded against the windows like it was trying to get in or maybe trying to pull him out.

Arjun sat alone, sketching with a charcoal stub. The lights were dim like always. He liked them that way. He said it was for atmosphere, but really it was for hiding.

He was halfway through a new drawing it wasn’t her face this time not exactly. It was a woman walking into the ocean, her back arched as if she was carrying grief in her spine.The door creaked. She hadn’t knocked.

Aksha wearing black again. Damp from the rain. Eyes tired lips split worse than last time.

You’re bleeding, he said, not moving.

I know.

A beat passed.

Do you want ice?

No.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

No.

Okay.

She dropped her bag and walked toward the counter her movements unhurried, deliberate. Like she didn’t want to startle him or maybe herself.

What are you drawing?

He didn’t want to show her.

But he turned the sketchpad anywayShe took one look and sat down across from him.I feel like that sometimes,she said. Like I’m drowning, but no one would notice until I wash up.He studied her for a second.

You ever think about not going into the water at all?

She smiled, but it wasn’t nice.

“I’m already soaked, Arjun.”

After that no one said anything they sat in silence the whole time.

That night, he dreamt of her.

Not naked. Not touching.

Just there.Sitting in his chair, flipping through his sketchbook, stopping on the pages where he’d drawn her from memory her lips in different shapes, the way her fingers curled, the softness in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t watching.

In the dream, she looked at him and said,

You’re not drawing me. You’re drawing my pain.

He woke up gasping, sweat on his neck, his chest tight.

The next few days felt… off. But in a way he didn’t hate.

They spoke more. Not about the past never directly. But around it.

One evening, she asked,

Do you think people can be broken forever?

He didn’t hesitate.Yes,he said.

Then added, softer But that doesn’t mean they can’t still be beautiful.

Later, one night while closing up, she lingered at the door.Fingers resting on the light switch.Eyes almost meeting his, then drifting away again.

Why do you flinch when I get close?she asked.He was quiet for a moment. Then he said Because I don’t know how to need someone… without falling apart.

She nodded slow. Like she had been there.

Like she was there.

I don’t want safe,she said. I want real.

He should’ve looked away. Should’ve said something that made it easier to walk away.

But instead, the truth slipped out of him like a breath -Real hurts.

She moved toward him, close enough that the air between them changed.

He could smell the cold in her coat, the rain still clinging to her skin.Her fingers lifted just barely and brushed the edge of his jaw, right where the beard gave way to bare skin.It was the lightest touch. But it lit something deep inside him.

She didn’t kiss him.She didn’t need to.

Her touch said everything.

And it was enough to break him apart.

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