Black fine line script reading Let it go on the inner forearm near the wrist, with three small birds flying upwards beside it.

Let it go script with birds on the wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo reads Let it go in a cursive script, with three small birds in flight rising diagonally from the end of the lettering. The linework is thin and solid black, with no shading or colour. The photograph is taken close up on the inner wrist and forearm, with the design centred and clearly in focus.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Lettering Phrase Bird Flying bird

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The sports hall at Hollins Road still smells of floor polish and radiator dust, though someone has strung paper bunting from the basketball hoops and it sags every time the fire door bangs. You stand by the squash table with a plastic cup of warm prosecco and watch Dean Fairclough try to place your surname. He gets as far as "Sharp, was it?" before his wife tugs his sleeve towards the sausage rolls.

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Ruth Dunning is by the urn. Twenty-six years ago she read your folded note in Year Eight maths, the one that said meet me at the bins at break, and she slid it back across the desk unopened because she said it was meant for someone else. You never found out who. You have carried that small humiliation the way people carry a grain of sand in a shoe, for far longer than is sensible, and you have rehearsed what you would say to her. Now she is holding a paper plate and asking after your mum.

You talk about nothing for ten minutes. She has two boys and a dental practice in Glossop. Then she laughs at something you say, and the laugh is exactly the same, and you realise you have been waiting for an apology that was never hers to give. "I was just a bit awful at fourteen," she says. "I'm sorry about the note." You tell her it's fine. For a moment it is not fine, and then, quite suddenly, it is.

Outside, the playing field is going grey with evening. Three starlings lift off the roof of the old science block and rise in a loose line, like pencil strokes lifted from a page, and you watch them until they are gone over the bike sheds. Back inside you drop the empty cup in the bin by the fire door. Dean is still trying to remember your surname, and you find you don't mind if he never does.