Page 142 of Mine Again
She traces the letters slowly, the pads of her fingers barely grazing me, Like she’s not sure she’s allowed to touch me.
“When did you get this?” she asks, her voice soft but filled with something I haven’t heard in years.
Hope.
“On your eighteenth birthday… the day we were supposed to get married. It’s when I got my first butterfly too.” I point to the delicate, vibrant cobalt-blue wings inked beside her name.
I cover her hand with mine. My voice is quieter now, stripped bare.
“My heart, Isa… it’s where you’ve always lived. And my heart,” I squeeze her hand, “has always belonged to you. Only ever you.”
Her eyes lift to mine. I can feel her pulse racing beneath my fingertips. It matches my own erratic rhythm.
She swallows, and her gaze drops to the cobalt-blue butterfly. Her fingers continue to move, tentative at first, then more surely. I lift my hand off hers and let her explore.
“True blue is rare in nature,” I murmur as she traces its wings. “And a blue butterfly signifies something rare, magical. In many cultures, it’s considered a good omen. Especially after hardship.”
She nods slowly, as if she’s afraid to hope but wants to believe in it anyway.
“There are five butterflies,” I whisper.
She grasps the meaning instantly. Her eyes flick to mine, glassy with emotion.
“One for each year we had to be apart,” she says, her voice catching at the end.
I nod, unable to speak. My jaw tightens. My body stays frozen beneath her touch, locked in place like stone, while fire simmers beneath my skin.
I can’t look away.
“Which butterfly was next?” she asks quietly.
I take her wrist gently and guide her hand to the inside of my left forearm. Her fingers brush over the skin there.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, her thumb grazing it slowly, her eyes tracing the fine outline of folded-tight wings. The powder-blue ink is muted… it’s how I felt without her.
“You really never stopped…” Her words trail off, but I know what she means.
“Never, Isa.” I cover her hand with mine again, needing to touch her. “That’s why I wanted a reminder of you in my sight. This one,” I nod at the butterfly on my forearm, “I can always see.”
She swallows hard. Her hand drifts downward, hesitant, until I guide her to my right side, just above my ribs.
“This was year three.”
Her touch is feather-light, but the moment her fingers find the shattered pattern there, her shoulders tense.
The ink is jagged, fragmented. Wings cracked apart like broken glass. Some edges fade into nothing, like they’re still falling.
“This one…” she whispers, her eyes lifting to mine.
“Was the hardest,” I say, feeling raw all over again. “That year broke me. Not because I stopped loving you. Never that. But becausehefound out about you.”
Her brow furrows. “Who?”
“The Jackal.”
Even saying the name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Who is he? And why does it matter if he found me?”
