Page 94 of The Tattoo Artist

Why did I hurt him when all he tried to do was mend me?

I glance at my phone, hoping for a message or a call from him, but the screen remains silent. The lack of communication felt like a chasm widening between us, and I longed for the comfort of his presence, for his voice, for his touch. But I remember his goodbye to me, and the moment he left the room- I cried.

As I sat there lost in my memories, the sound of Mrs. Toffee’s voice pulls me back to the present. I look up to see her concerned gaze, and the tears welled up in my eyes once again, threatening to spill over.

“Alexandra, class was over fifteen minutes ago...” she began, but then she notices my tear-streaked face. Her expression softened, and without hesitation, she set her coffee aside and wraps her arms around me. “Oh, dear child,” she whispers soothingly, pulling me into a comforting embrace. “Let it out.”

Her warmth and understanding were a balm to my wounded heart, and I allowed myself to let go of the emotions I had been holding back. I bury my face in her shoulder, letting the tears flow freely, feeling safe and supported in her embrace.

Mrs. Toffee gently strokes my hair, offering me a comforting touch. She didn’t ask questions or push for explanations; she simply held space for me to release the pain that had been building up inside me.

I cried without restraint, letting all the emotions that had been bottling up pour out. It was embarrassing to break down in front of my teacher, but in that moment, I didn’t care. I needed to let it out, to feel the weight of my heartache lessen even just a little.

Mrs. Toffee’s caring presence felt like a lifeline in the midst of the storm that had engulfed my life. Her kind words and understanding embrace reminded me that I wasn’t alone, that there were people who cared for me and would be there for me in my time of need.

After a while, my tears began to subside, and I gently pull away from her embrace. Mrs. Toffee hands me a tissue, and I gratefully wipe my cheeks, offering a small smile of gratitude.

“Thank you.” My voice trembles. “Sorry-I don’t know what came over me.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I shake my head. “I can see your heartbroken, you haven’t touched your sketchbook in two weeks. Remember, it’s okay to feel overwhelmed. Take all the time you need to heal.”

Her words were a gentle reminder that healing was a process, and it was okay to take it one step at a time. I nod, feeling a sense of comfort in her wisdom. I gather my things and exit the classroom, the echoes of Mrs. Toffee’s comforting words still lingering in my mind. As I walk down the busy hallway, my eyes catch sight of Catherine sitting under the tree. A mix of emotions rushes through me, but I know I need to face her. I need to forgive. To move on.

To do things right.

Her gaze lifts, and our eyes meet, locking in a moment of understanding. Catherine’s eyes widen, and she quickly stands up, a mixture of guilt and sadness evident on her face.

“Alexandra-” She begins, but I interrupt her gently.

“I forgive you,” I whisper, surprising both her and I with the weight of those words. Her brows furrow, and she looks at me with disbelief.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to be the one to hurt you-” She trails off.

“You weren’t,” I reply, a sense of clarity settling over me. “I understand now that you were just trying to protect me, even if it meant keeping the truth from me. We were both struggling with our own battles, and I can’t fault you for the choices you made.”

Catherine’s expression softens, and tears shimmer in her eyes. “Thank you,” she says, her voice choked with emotion.

“I know it won’t be easy, but we can find a way to move forward, to support each other as friends,” I continue. “We don’t have to pretend that everything is okay, but we can heal together.”

Holding onto anger and resentment would only weigh me down, and I didn’t want to carry that burden any longer. Forgiving Catherine was a step towards healing, not just for our friendship, but also for my own heart.

“Can I hug you?” I nod my head and she wraps her arms around me, I missed her so much. I missed my best friend. My neighbour. My balcony person.

After our conversation, Catherine offered to take me home. Grateful for the ride, I bid her farewell and walk up to my front door, I dig into my bag, looking for my keys but I just couldn’t find them. I squat down onto the ground, stretching my bag wider before finding the keys stuck inside my sketchbooks.

As I push my key inside and enter, I slide my shoes off and feel something-something off. To my surprise, when I come in the kitchen, I found my parents and Auntie Coraline seated at the dining table. Their stern expressions made me uneasy, and my heart started pounding in my chest.

“What’s going on?” I manage to ask, trying to appear composed despite the chaos in my mind.

My mother stood up abruptly and threw a shirt at me, and I recognised it instantly—it was Ares’ shirt. My eyes widen in shock, and I look up at them all, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.

“Why do you have a man’s shirt in your room, Alexandra Jones?” My mother’s voice was laced with anger, and I could see the disappointment in her eyes. My father didn’t even look at me, but I could feel the tension in the room, making me feel smaller than ever.

“I can explain-” I stammer, trying to find the right words to convey the truth.

“Explain! To whom does that belong to!” My mother’s voice rose, and her frustration was evident.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

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