The Marking

Every night before sleep, Mara draws a line on Jonah’s back.

The ritual began without discussion, which is how most enduring things begin. The first night they spent together in the apartment, Jonah complained about an itch he couldn’t reach, somewhere between his shoulder blades. Mara traced her finger along his spine, slow and deliberate, and said, “Here?”

“Lower.”

She found the spot. Jonah sighed. When she pulled her hand away, she noticed a faint red line where her nail had pressed.

“Do it again,” he said. “But longer.”

She did.

The next night, he turned his back to her automatically. She drew the line again, this time with intention. Straight, careful. From the base of his neck to the small hollow just above his waist.

It felt intimate in a way sex often didn’t—quiet, precise, shared. Like signing something invisible.

They joked about it at first.

“You’re branding me,” Jonah said once.

“Marking my territory,” Mara replied.

But jokes have a way of becoming instructions.

Over time, the ritual settled into place. Lights off. Curtains half-drawn. Jonah on his side, facing away. Mara tracing the line with her finger, always in the same direction, always the same pressure.

It had rules, though neither of them said so aloud.

No talking during the marking.

No skipping a night.

The line must be continuous.

When Mara traveled for work, Jonah asked her to call at bedtime. She’d talk him through it; describe the motion, the pace, the exact pressure. He would do it himself, then send her a photo of his back the next morning.

“Not the same,” he admitted. “But it holds.”

Holds what, she wondered.

At first, the line faded by morning. By afternoon, it was gone completely. Skin returning to itself.

Then one morning, Mara noticed something strange.

The line was still there.

Faint, but visible. A pale pink seam running down Jonah’s back, too straight to be accidental.

“You didn’t shower?” she asked.

“I did,” Jonah said. He twisted, trying to see it. “It’s probably just sensitive skin.”

But the line remained the next day. And the next.

It darkened slowly, like a scar remembering how it was made.

Mara suggested they take a break.

“Just for a night,” she said lightly. “See what happens.”

Jonah laughed, but it sounded wrong; too sharp, too quick.

“Why would we do that?”

“It’s just a habit,” she said. “Habits shouldn’t scare us.”

He didn’t respond. That night, he waited for her in bed, back turned, shoulders tense.

Mara hesitated.

Her finger hovered above his skin.

“Jonah—”

“Please,” he said.

Not angrily. Not desperately. Just firmly, as if stating a fact.

So she drew the line.

It felt different this time. Resistant. As though the skin expected it. As though it knew where the finger should go and guided it there.

Afterward, Jonah slept deeply, a kind of sleep Mara hadn’t seen in months. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, tracing the line again in her mind, over and over.

The next day, Jonah seemed lighter. More present. He laughed easily, touched her more often. The line on his back was darker now, almost brown, like a healed cut.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It feels… right.”

Weeks passed.

Mara began to notice that Jonah’s moods were tied to the ritual. On nights when she was distracted, when the line wavered slightly, when her finger lifted too soon he was restless the next day. Irritable.

Once, she accidentally curved the line.

Jonah sat up immediately.

“That’s not how it goes.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Fix it.”

She tried to retrace it, straighten it, but the damage was done. Jonah didn’t sleep at all that night. He paced the apartment, rubbing his back compulsively, as if trying to erase the error.

By morning, the line had split. Two faint tracks instead of one.

Mara stared at it while Jonah showered, her stomach tight.

That afternoon, she packed a bag.

“I need space,” she said. “This isn’t healthy.”

Jonah didn’t argue. He just nodded, eyes distant.

“Can you do it once more?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then leave your mark,” he said. “So it doesn’t fade.”

“I don’t want to mark you,” she said softly. “I want you whole.”

Jonah smiled, and for the first time, it frightened her.

“I am whole,” he said. “Because of it.”

She left.

Days passed. Then weeks.

They didn’t speak.

One night, Mara woke suddenly, her finger burning. She sat up, heart racing, and realized she had been tracing a line on her own arm in her sleep. Straight. Careful. Continuous.

In the mirror the next morning, she saw it clearly.

A pale line, running from shoulder to elbow.

It didn’t hurt.

It felt like something remembering her.

Now, every night, Mara stands in front of the mirror and redraws it. Same pressure. Same direction. No talking.

She tells herself it’s temporary. A residue. Something learned and soon unlearned.

But the line is getting darker.

And sometimes, when she finishes, she feels the distinct, unsettling relief of having done something she was meant to do.

Something that holds.