The Ink Between Us
My phone buzzed against my nightstand at 2 AM. Siri's face filled the screen, her blue light illuminating my dark room.
"Bro, you gotta see this," she whispered.
I rubbed sleep from my eyes and squinted at my iPhone. Siri was sitting on her roof, knees pulled to her chest, something clutched in her hand.
"What are you doing up there?"
"Look." She held up her palm. Black ink spiraled across her skin—an intricate maze of lines and symbols I didn't recognize. "My cousin's a tattoo artist. She let me practice."
I stared. Since junior high, Siri and I had been inseparable. We survived eighth grade drama together, shared our first joints behind the bleachers, promised we'd escape this town together after graduation. But lately she'd been pulling away, spending weekends with her cousin's crew, coming back with stories I couldn't relate to.
"It's beautiful," I said, and meant it.
"I have another one." She turned her hand over. On her wrist, barely visible: my initials.
My throat tightened. "Siri—"
"No, listen." Her voice cracked. "Everyone says we're codependent. My mom, your mom, the guidance counselor. But this?" She tapped her wrist. "This is my choice. You're my family, Bri. The ink doesn't change that."
I thought about all the hours we'd spent intertwined on her bed, sharing AirPods and secrets. About how her palm had fit perfectly in mine when we walked everywhere freshman year, before we started driving. About the way she'd traced lifelines on my hands and told me we'd live forever.
"Show me the real one," I said.
She grinned, relief flooding her face, and held up her palm again. The design was a phoenix rising from flames, its wings stretching across her hand lines.
"Next weekend," she said, "you're getting one too. Matching."
I laughed, something loosening in my chest. "My mom will kill me."
"She'll get over it. We're in this together, Bri. Palm sweat and all."
The screen went dark, but I could still feel the warmth of her thousand miles away, our friendship inked into something permanent.