You started doodling on your hands when you were eight. Sitting at your desk, hand relaxed against the cool wood while your teacher talked about today's lesson—a book she'd tasked you all to read—your hand inked mindless small flowers with your glitter felt-tip pen.
Swirls and curves lined your hand and wrist, up to the juncture of your inner elbow as you scrawled tiny hearts and stars in the spaces between, a constellation of shimmery designs on your skin growing as your pen moved.
It wasn't art so much as it was comfort. You felt content with the way the patterns looked on your skin, how the color popped vibrantly against your arm, like you were slowly turning yourself into a page of your coloring book, worthy of becoming a masterpiece as you added more details.
Across an ocean, a young boy sat through his football tactics meeting, gaze focusing on the whiteboard with intersecting black lines and circles drawn for their next strategy play. When he pulled off his gloves, the coach noticed purple flowers faintly blooming on the back of his hand.
"Marker?" With eyebrows raised, the man stared at the boy curiously, gesturing with the clipboard in his hand.
Sea-glass green eyes follow the motion, confusion painting his face at the sight of the doodles running down his arm.
"No."
The flowers don't wash off.
