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Produced by the ILAB at WBUR Boston.

A note before we start. This episode deals with suicide and it may not be right for all listeners.

From the New York Times and WBUR Boston, this is Modern Love.

Stories of Love, loss and redemption. I'm your host, Megna Chakrabardi.

People get tattoos for a lot of reasons. But whatever they mean, or were meant to mean, they are a permanent mark commemorating a moment in time.

Alana Dakin writes about two different tattoos in her essay. It's read this week by Zasha Mammott. Zasha is best known for her work on HBO's Girls and her new show is Tales of the City on Netflix.

My boyfriend, Andreas, extended his forearm over his plate of half-eaten turkey and yams, just clenched, exposing the Greek letters tattooed and dark blue ink from inner elbow to wrist.

I took a hesitant bite of salad, still nauseated from the five-hour car ride from Manhattan to Lexington, Massachusetts, where Andreas' aunt and uncle were hosting the family's Thanksgiving meal.

It means nobody. Andreas told his cousin, who had spotted the new tattoo. His eyes were wet and alive.

I already knew the story. It was Andreas' favorite part of the Odyssey. But I leaned in anyway, as he narrated the tale of when Odysseus and his men find themselves trapped in the cave of Pauli Femus, a fearsome cyclops.

The story goes that in a daring attempt at freedom, Odysseus tells the monster that his name is Nobody, and then plunges a wooden stake through Pauli Femus' single eye, blinding him.

The other giants on the island come running at the sound of Pauli Femus' screams, but they soon turn back when the cyclops explains that nobody had heard him.

Andreas smiled. You see, he said, Odysseus tricked them. He escaped.

Less than one week later, I was sitting with Andreas' parents in their Tribeca apartment, looking through my phone for a photo of the same tattoo.

We were drinking wine, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. And then, Andreas had been missing for over 48 hours.

A blank email addressed to the detective assigned to Andreas' missing person case was open in front of me.

The officer had asked us to send him a detailed physical description of Andreas, including photographs of his tattoos.

This was to help the police put together his missing person flyer, or, if the time came, to identify the body.

I had more or less moved in with Andreas' family since I found his suicide note on his bed two days before, along with his debit card, mailbox key, and rent check for the month.

His phone was found later that night in the living room. His last text message sent to me just before leaving his apartment for the last time.

Goodbye. You're stronger than you know. I love you.

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