Fine line black script reading follow your heart, with a thin arrow and small heart below it, on a forearm.

Follow your heart script and arrow on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A forearm shows the handwritten words follow your heart in black script, with a thin arrow beneath the lettering. A small heart sits on the shaft of the arrow, which points to the right. The ink is a single dark tone on pale skin against a light background, and the photograph is slightly soft with warm tones.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Script Arrow Heart

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The sports hall at Hollins Park still smells of floor polish and crisp packets, and you have spent twenty minutes at the trestle table pretending to sort name badges. Someone has written Nadia on one in careful capitals, and you are not sure she is coming. Across the room Mrs Bellamy, who taught you geography and never once let anyone leave early, is telling a man in a rugby shirt that his tie is crooked.

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Nadia arrives late in a green coat, and the two of you end up on the bench under the climbing ropes as if you are fifteen and about to be caught passing notes. She still has hers. You wrote it on the back of a bus timetable in Year Ten: a single arrow in biro, pointing right, towards the fire door that led to the bins and freedom. Beside the shaft you drew a heart you were too embarrassed to finish. Underneath, you wrote follow it. Neither of you did, not really. She went to Rotterdam at seventeen and then to a job on a container ship, and you stayed in Hull and learned to keep a shop's accounts straight.

"I wondered if you'd still have yours," she says. You tell her it lives in a drawer with the passport and the spare keys. She laughs and asks whether you ever went to the sea. You tell her about the ferry you took once to see the cliffs at Bempton, the postcards you never sent, the flat above the laundrette where the floor hummed every time the dryers turned. Neither of you says the word heart. The urn clicks off behind you.

When Mrs Bellamy claps her hands for order, Nadia stands and pulls her coat tight. Someone has propped the fire door open with a folded chair, and cold air is coming in from the car park, smelling of wet tarmac and diesel. She looks at you, then at the door, and waits. You pick up your bag, and for once you do not check your watch before you step outside.