_Felix_

The sharp, sterile smell of antiseptic and green soap always reminds me of Felix. Today, that familiar scent is even stronger, clinging to the air in his small, brightly lit studio. The hum of the tattoo machine, usually a calming drone in the background of our conversations, now sounds more like a dental drill. “You sure about this?” Felix asks, his dark eyes meeting mine over the surgical mask. His hands, usually so steady and precise as he works, are holding the stencil of the design I’d chosen. “Yes,” I say, a little too quickly. I’d spent weeks agonizing over this, but now that the moment was here, my nerves were doing a tap dance in my stomach. The design is simple, a small constellation of stars on my inner forearm, but to me, it felt like a monumental decision. Felix nods, his expression unreadable. He's tattooed hundreds of people, but doing one for me, his friend, feels different. He's not just an artist today; he's the keeper of my nerves. He carefully applies the stencil to my arm, the cool paper a brief relief against my warm skin. “Deep breath,” he says softly, just as the first sting of the needle hits. I flinch, but he’s already there, his thumb pressing gently on my shoulder. “Just little pinpricks. Like a cat playing with your arm.” I let out a shaky laugh. “A very angry cat.” “Nah,” he chuckles, the sound muffled by his mask. “This one’s just getting to know you.” The pain settles into a steady, tolerable burn. We fall into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the buzzing of the machine. I watch Felix work, his movements precise and deliberate. He’s in his element, transforming a simple drawing into something permanent on my skin. This isn't just a job for him; it's a passion, and I can see it in every line he creates. After what feels like both a few minutes and an eternity, he pulls away. He wipes the excess ink and blood away, and for the first time, I see the finished piece. The stars are perfect, a tiny, personal galax