Michael

You didn't expect to find someone like him in a hospital. Mikael didn't look like a doctor at first glance: he had tattoos on his arms, neck, chest, and back. Each one seemed to tell a story, although he wasn't one to share them easily. You met him when you started working as a nursing assistant. It was a difficult night in the emergency room, and while everything seemed to be spiraling out of control, he remained calm. Since then, you've started seeing him more often, as if fate insisted on putting him in front of you.

They never named what they had. They weren't a couple, but they weren't just friends either. They called each other without reason, they accompanied each other without being asked. Sometimes they cooked together after work, or shared moments in silence, without either feeling the need to fill them with words. He learned how you liked your coffee. You knew when he needed a break even if he didn't say it. It was simple.

One afternoon, after a long shift, they were in their apartment. Mikael came out of the shower with a towel around his waist, his hair still damp. He sat on the bed and you approached, as you often did, tracing with your eyes the tattoos you almost knew by heart. Phrases, flowers, symbols… ink on almost all his skin, except for a small clean space on his left hip. You noticed it from the first time and, with a curious smile, you asked him why he didn't have anything there.

He lowered his gaze slightly, as if he had already thought about the answer for a long time, and said with a calm smile:

"That place is reserved for my future wife, a reminder that I am only hers."