I found the tattoo parlor while wandering aimlessly through one of the narrow, lantern-lit streets of Datong District. The parlor looked old, tucked between a toy store and a Chinese medicine hall.
The needle vibrated and pierced. I closed my eyes and welcomed the sting. I imagined the ink seeping in, letter by letter.
Yours.
It was on my left breast, right above my heart.
Days later, his lips are on my skin. When he reaches the ink, he stops. His fingers tighten ever so slightly against my ribs. He exhales slowly. No questions asked. No words uttered. He kisses it tenderly at first, then again, firmer this time. His tongue traces the letters.
That night, it is different. Neither rough nor fast.
Just intense.
The Present
It’s been years. I have gray hairs now, mostly at my temples. I don’t think of him often—at least, not like I used to. But today, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Bare skin. My body is softer now, but there it is.
Yours.
My fingers brush over the letters, the ghost of his lips flickering behind my eyes. I should get it removed. I tell myself that sometimes.
But I won’t.
Back then, his fingertips grazed the ink absentmindedly. While the night bird called in the distance, he’d press his lips against it and whisper—mine.
Now, my fingers trace the letters, following the path his touch once took. The ink remains, but his touch is long gone. I keep waiting for the pain to dull, but it never does.
Back then, it was a vow.
Now, it’s just a relic.
Someone new notices it once. His fingertips pause over the letters.
Obsession is not just in longing; it’s also loving him in fragments. Here’s a series of short fragmented thoughts about him—scattered images, sensations, memories, desires. They are pieces of my obsession.
His hair gently brushing his forehead, blown by the fan as he sleeps on our bed.
Him standing on the kitchen sink washing the dishes after dinner. The slope of his bare shoulders, the muscles on his back, the scratches I made, naked except for his dark boxers.
The way he hums as he unloads the laundry.
He sits on the couch, shirtless, scrolling through the reels, smirking, chuckling depending on what he watches.
His prolonged silence after I uttered some cutting remarks.
The way my eyes drift lower, tracing the shift of fabric, wondering what lies beneath.
As he passes me on the way to the bathroom, I reach out, my fingers grazing over him in a teasing touch.
The curve of his shoulder in the half-light when we took a nap in the afternoon.
The way he stares at me, intense and serious, before he smiles.
The way his voice cracks when he’s tired, rough and tender at the edges.
The smell of earth and salt on his skin after rain.
As he shifts in his sleep, the fabric rides up, revealing just enough to make my breath catch.
The smell of his skin after a shower.
His hands, always his hands, calloused and tender, mapping my body in the late afternoon while the curtain gently blew by the breeze.
His gentle snores, and sometimes he snorted while sleeping. Depending on how tired I am, it either amuses me or annoys me.
The way he looks at me when he thinks I am not watching.
I gently kiss his scars on his arms and chest.
The taste of his lips.
The heat of his body against mine. The weight of his arm across my waist while spooning.
The sound of his key in the door. I could hear it jangle as he exited the lift.
The shadow of his stubble in the morning.
The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall.
The way he holds my legs and rests them on his shoulders, his breath mingling with mine as we dissolve into one another.
The way his mouth finds me, his tongue teasing, drawing a gasp from my lips.
The way he looks at the ocean and squeezes my hand gently.
The way his eyes turn dark after a desperate “I love you” right before he shatters.
The way he says “look at me” right before I unravel.
The way he moves through a room.
His pain and grief over the people he couldn’t save.
The emptiness he leaves behind, a hollow I carry with me, a shape I can’t stop trying to fill.
Obsession doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes, it exists in the way his fingers grasp my arm and let go too slowly, or in the way I watch him without speaking. It’s in the moments I don’t say aloud. The glances stolen across a dinner table, or the scent of his cologne in a silent car ride home. I don’t need to explain this love. I only need to describe it—as it exists in my memory, in my body, in every small, quiet way it consumes me.
I didn’t like the things he said to me, so I retorted. He stared at me, raised his cup to his lips, and kept eating. We continued to eat amidst the clinks of cutlery and conversations around us. We finished our food, got up from our chairs, paid for it, and left. The air was balmy as we walked to the car. Nothing moved, not even a leaf. He switched the ignition; I reached for the AC, and seconds later, the radio. The DJ chattered on about a celebrity’s antics that I had no interest in, but I listened intently. When the ad came on, I kept listening. It was a promotion for a new fragrance. I thought about my almost empty perfume bottle at home. I glanced his way, taking a quick look at his jaw, hair, nose, lips, and eyes. Especially his eyes. He navigated the traffic cautiously, signaled before switching lanes, and braked when he needed to stop. The DJ continued to talk, the AC continued to hum—diffusing the heat between us.
It was late evening. The sky was deep navy, and the moon peeked gently over the clouds. I didn’t expect to see the stars, but a few dotted the sky. We had been sitting on the park bench right after leaving the cafe. We were in no rush to go home, though it was getting late. He wanted to walk me home, and I said okay. Trees lined the street. Their branches swaying softly in the breeze. Suddenly I misstepped slightly on the uneven sidewalk and stumbled. His hand darted out to steady me. His fingers wrapped around my arm, and he asked if I was okay. His grasp was firm, and after ensuring I was alright, his grip loosened but lingered slightly longer than necessary. I didn’t say anything but continued to walk, secretly hoping I would stumble again.
I love him so intensely that it aches. My heart clenches at the mere thought of him—and I think of him constantly. Never in my life have I experienced such overwhelming love for someone. Never did I believe such a love was possible. I don’t even know how to put my feelings for him into words, but I’m trying. Maybe not by proclaiming to the world how much he means to me or delving into philosophical debates about the nature of our love. My own thoughts feel jumbled and incoherent, so why bother explaining them to anyone else? Instead, why not simply describe the love itself? Describe the actions, the moments, and the way it unfolds in my memory?
He rarely talks about his work. I know he analyzes criminal behavior and patterns, making critical decisions based on his findings. I know he works long hours and is often gone for days at a time. He spares me the details, and I never ask. Not because I don’t care, but because I don’t want to be the one to remind him of the darkness he faces. Still, I can’t help but imagine it.
On the days he is with me, I see his eyes—the shadows lurking in their depths that he tries to hide. Sometimes, he stares into the distance, to a place I will never reach. I hear his quiet sighs. And at night, when we sleep, I feel his muscles tense as he thrashes in his dreams. On nights like these, I gently grasp his wrist and call his name, coaxing him back to me. His forehead and brows are damp with sweat, soaking his pillow. He wakes, startled, before his eyes focus and relief washes over him. On nights like these, I hold him in my arms, rocking him like a frightened child. He clings to me without a word, and we stay like that until we fall asleep. On nights like these, I pray—shamelessly, desperately—for God to pull him from the abyss, from demons I can neither see nor fight.
There are days he couldn’t come to me. He is always needed wherever he is. He analyzes patterns, behaviors, minds. But does anyone truly know him? On the days he is with me—the late evening light reflected on his disheveled hair. The contour of his tired shoulders. His long, calloused fingers. His moans echo in the shadows.
The light around him softened his expression into something tender. One hand held a book, the other blindly traced the tabletop. I paused mid-sentence, staring. His brows furrowed, his gentle eyes on the page. At that moment, my heart found shelter after endless wandering. He sensed my gaze and glanced up. Our eyes met—just for a moment—before he shifted away.
This is one of the nights when the apartment feels damp and cold. Thoughts ran through my mind while washing dishes, doing the laundry, and folding our clothes. Is he tailing someone right at this moment? Has he eaten? I tried listening to the audiobook, but nothing felt right. This book is too wordy. That one has a flat narrator’s tone. I closed the app and scrolled through YouTube to find a playlist to match my mood. In this playlist, the songs are too catchy. The other playlist is too sappy. I disconnected my earbuds and put my phone away. Even with all the lights on, the room feels darker. How many hours before tomorrow comes?
His hands are a map of everything I cherished. His light tan hands have carried pain and tenderness in equal measure. They have wielded weapons, sifted through crime evidence, cuffed wrists, and tenderly stroked the deepest part of me. His fingers are long and tapered; half moons peeked on his trimmed nails. Sometimes I noticed faint traces of blood and grime. When they brush against my skin, it’s like the first ray of sunlight after a long, cold night. His hands have built and mended, held and released. They’ve cupped my face, traced my curves, and held me in place. They’ve wiped away my tears and made obscene gestures in moments of anger or to stir my laughter. When I think of his hands, I’m reminded of the roots of the ancient trees or the ocean with their endless ebb and flow pulled by the moon.
The bed now is just a bed. The sheets are now crumpled into hollows that hold the shape of him. I run my fingers over the fabric and the pillows. They still smell faintly of his skin and the faint, sharp tang of his cologne. I press my face into it, trying to hold onto what’s left, but the scent is already fading. The white walls have absorbed the echo of his voice. The door clicked shut with a finality and stays closed until he returns. On the table, his cup sits lonely with the faint imprint of his lips. I leave it there to become a relic of our morning. His jacket hangs on the back of the chair, slouched in a way that feels so like him, as if it might come alive and shrug itself back into motion. The room has exhaled. It has moved on and is settling into the rhythm of my day, one that doesn’t include him.
Olivia's Atelier 