You and Xen had stayed friends even after college despite the different paths you took. You now worked in a corporate office, surrounded by deadlines and fluorescent lights. While Xen, on the other hand, owned a tattoo studio, his days filled with ink and the hum of machine.

Lately, something had been stirring inside you; a craving. You wanted a tattoo—thinking it’ll be a cool design and meaningful. And you wanted Xen to be the one to do it. But every time you asked, he always refused and came up with excuses;

“Your skin’s too soft for ink,” “You’ll regret it.” “I don’t tattoo friends.” he’d say. Excuses. Always excuses.

One Saturday, you decided to stop asking over messages. You showed up at his studio unannounced, reference already saved on your phone. You waited patiently as he finished working on a client and when he finally stepped out, he look you with a frown on his face.

“How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t put tattoo on a friend?” he sigh, not because he don’t want to, but because he don’t want to be the reason why you regret it.