My Best Friend's Dad
I whispered.
Tristan was quiet for a long moment. “Neither did I,” he said. The silence returned, but again, it wasn’t hollow.
When she finished, Demi handed me a smaller mirror. The butterfly sat right above my shoulder blade, wings open and reaching upward. The initials that were nestled in the center were almost delicate, like a whisper. A quiet tribute to a soul that never took a breath but would always live inside me.
“It’s perfect,” I whispered.
Tristan leaned closer, brushing a kiss just below the tattoo. “They would’ve been perfect, too.”