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Soulmates shouldn’t be hard to find. Not when a person could write an address and time on their arm and have it appear on their soulmate’s. In fact, it was quite easy for most people to find their soulmate. They would write their name and address and their soulmate would respond. They always do. Why wouldn’t they? Shouldn’t everyone want to find the person designated by the universe for them? To live and love a fulfilled life with the one person guarantied to understand and care for you….
It sounded wonderful. In theory. Noam’s parents were soulmates, and they still had problems. That was all Noam could think. Sure, when they were happy and together, the world was bright with color, but Noam’s mother still was gone and that illusion of perfection was shattered in favor of the harsh realities of life.
As a child, Noam would stay up late and write words on his arms to his soulmate, and wait for responses. Sometimes they would come, but not often. His own soulmate was busy. Or something. It was the only explanation he could think of to explain why they wouldn’t want to meet. Noam would tell his soulmate that he couldn’t wait to meet them, that he already loved them, messy writing scribbled against his arm and the hope of an answer.
He wrote on his arms and legs to his soulmate every single day. Drawing pictures and writing little messages about his day, or something he learned in school. If he was lucky, his soulmate would return the gesture with his own sketches and drawn smiley faces next to his favorite of Noam’s immature art.
His earliest memories were of writing to his soulmate, obviously older, but not by more than a couple years. They knew words Noam didn’t understand. Their handwriting was clean and perfect. They had better control.
When he was older, ten, maybe, he asked for their name, gender, favorite color, anything to help him find them. They did their best to be as vague as possible, response lacking anything substantial. They completely ignored the question of their name. It hurt. In return, Noam wrote to them about the books he was reading. They talk a bit about the stories late at night while they were supposed to be sleeping. He cherished those times.
His soulmate asked him to write somewhere less visible, at one point. Noam moved his notes to his thighs and stomach to keep talking to them. He didn’t understand, but he didn’t want to upset his soulmate when they already gave him so little. He didn’t want to lose them.
When he was twelve, Noam’s soulmate was silent for two months. Not a single note, in any format, sketch, word, scribbles. There was nothing. He thought that they were dead. He never stopped writing though, telling them that he missed their conversations, their handwriting. He would write about his day, his current book, how he hated school, sometimes politics. Nothing ever received an answer. Two months. Two months of nothing until he finally got a message. Radio silence was broken but the response was heartbreaking.
Please stop writing
Noam felt lost, confused. He was twelve when the message came. He didn’t understand. Why would they do this? He had never heard of anyone asking their soulmate to stop writing before. It hurt. It hurt more than anything.
He went to his parents when it happened, to ask them why his soulmate would ask this of him. They couldn’t explain in anyway that would satisfy him. They didn’t know.
Still, he would honor his soulmates request. He stopped writing. One last message before he put down his pen for good, or at least until he had permission to write again, Noam wrote I love you. His soulmate didn’t respond.
When Noam was thirteen, his mother died. His life fell apart. Suddenly he was working two jobs, dropping out of school, and taking care of his father all by himself. If there was ever a time in his life where he needed the unconditional support of the person meant to be with him, it was then.
When he went to juvie, he considered writing to his soulmate and telling them what happened, but he decided against it. They asked him not to write. To Noam, that was unconditional. If he could manage his mother’s death by himself, he could manage this alone too.
It was still hard. He had been told all his life that someone out in the world would always love him. Noam didn’t believe it anymore.
When Noam was sixteen his father died. He had never felt so alone then. He considered once more reaching out to his soulmate. Noam took a marker and held it above his skin. Maybe they wouldn’t get mad if it was somewhere not too visible. His thigh would work, maybe. Somewhere visible to them but no one else.
Noam put the marker to his skin and wrote: I want to meet you.
The response came later that day, short and to the point.
No.
Why? Noam wrote back.
I can’t tell you. Was the reply.
I need you.
You’re wrong.
How could they say that? Frustrated, he wrote back without thinking.
You have no idea what I’ve had to go through.
Noam regretted it immediately, scratching it out with his marker. He wrote again.
I’m sorry. Can you just tell me why you left? Help me understand. I miss you.
Noam didn’t receive a response after that. The damage was done. He upset his soulmate and they were gone again.
A year went by, Noam worked two jobs to keep himself alive, unable to do anything else. He lived with a friend of his family, crashing on their couch, helping them with rent, cleaning what he could, cooking sometimes as well. Anything to help. To make himself less of a burden. He didn’t make enough to save much of it, but he did keep a pile of cash in a bag in that apartment. Anything he could save. He wanted to be able to move out when he could, find somewhere else to go. Ideally, move in with his soulmate in a little apartment somewhere out of this neighborhood. But that’s was just a dream. His soulmate was gone again, and Noam was upset with them. Noam had lost all his hope to ever find them.
Then, something changed.
He began receiving messages again. At first they were small, forgettable, really, sometimes they looked as though they were merely smudges of ink on the side of his hands. Sometimes they were more. A little drawn star on his wrist. Small, hopeful. A word here and there, book titles, abbreviations. Noam wanted more than anything to know why this was happening, why now? The messages weren’t even too him, that was obvious. Just reminders of classes and lunch dates.
Soon, the messages became more clear. Still not meant for him, but there. Clues about his soulmate. Noam still didn’t respond.
A class schedule. A couple of names. A school. A city. An address. A time.
An address and time.
He paused and took a break from restocking some shelves and pulled out his phone to type in what it said. A small coffee shop downtown. Nowhere Noam had gone before. Too trendy, six dollars for a cup of coffee that wasn’t even that good. They served avocado toast. It wasn’t a different city, or country, but just downtown. But this message was meant for him. And it was soon. He had about an hour, if he was lucky, to get there. He had to leave work, telling his boss that he would make it up next week, and the please don’t fire me left unspoken was forgotten when he received another message on his arm.
I’ll explain everything. I promise.
Noam’s boss understood. She let him go and told him not to worry about it.
Noam borrowed a pen to write back, I’ll be there.
He had to go home and shower first, very quickly. He didn’t really want the first time he met his soulmate to be ruined by smelling like sweat and food items sold where he worked. He did his best to avoid washing off the written mark of the address and time. That would be embarrassing to have to ask for once more.
Noam had never in his life cared about what he was wearing until this moment. Standing with his towel wrapped around himself, clothes out in front of him, he didn’t know what to do. Jeans, probably would be fine, but he didn’t own a T-shirt that wasn’t stretched out and stained, and all he owned was T-shirts. He quickly pulled on his clothes and got ready, thankful he had remembered to do laundry the day before. He brushed his hair, his teeth, and even kicked some of the dirt off his shoes. He pulled on a sweatshirt, also oversized, stretched out and stained. The cuffs on the sleeves were frayed and falling apart, but it was all he had.
The bus ride there took forever. Every little stop, every person arriving and leaving, every time the driver hit the break, Noam felt like he was going to scream. He wasn’t running late yet, but he didn’t want to make his soulmate wait. While he was sitting there, he noticed a mark beginning in his hand. His soulmate was drawing a star on their palm. It wasn’t a message but instead a mark, an identifying mark. His soulmate wanted to find him.
Noam stepped off the bus, wind nearly knocked him off his feet. He stepped in a puddle. Great. Two minutes to meet his soulmate and he had already messed up. It didn’t really matter, he tried to tell himself, but this feeling of not being enough was emerging. His soulmate had already abandoned him once. Maybe they would look at Noam and do it again.
He knew that’s not how these thing worked. He knew that people who were apart from their soulmates didn’t want to be that way, but he couldn’t understand why this mystery person would have avoided him for so long.
Those questions would be answered. Soon, in fact. As soon as he walked through the door of the coffee shop and finally lay eyes upon his one true love.
He rounded the street corner. The shop came into view. A few more steps and he reached the door. Hand on the handle, he couldn’t wait if he wanted to. He opened the door, stepped inside.
Noam looked around. Starting on the left, moving his eyes across the room. He wasn’t sure what this person was supposed to look like. He didn’t even know their gender, age, favorite color. He knew nothing expect they were meant to be together. It was busy. Couples chatting at their tables, a long line of people ready to order at the counter, students with books spread across multiple tables. Noam looked at each of them, he just understood that if he saw his soulmate, he would know. His eyes reached the far corner of the room.
There he was. And he looked beautiful. He was sitting with his back facing the wall, drink in hand, positioned to scout the entire room. He had a few books on the table before him. Curly brown hair that looked like it would be soft to the touch. Noam took a step forward, towards him. They were the only people in the room
Noam made it halfway there before the boy lifted his eyes from his book to see him. Perfectly symmetrical face, beautiful lips, his eyes were dark obsidian. Noam wasn’t breathing. He faltered in his step when the boy stood up to greet him. Noam reached out. Right hand with the palm facing up. The boy glanced at the hand before returning the gesture with his own. There was the star on his palm. This was his soulmate.
Their hands connected in what must have been a handshake of sorts. Noam was dissatisfied with a fucking handshake being the first skin on skin contact they shared. He stepped closer, dropping their hands only when he had touched the arm of the other. Noam hugged him. His soulmate hugged him back. He threw his arms around Noam’s shoulders and squeezed him so tight.
They stood there for a long time, together, finally. Noam felt as though things would be okay. Everything would work out, as long as they had each other.
Some people noticed, judging by the awing coming from around them. It would have ruined the moment if Noam cared. He didn’t. He finally let go and smiled and the boy in front of him.
“Hi,” Noam said, voice much quieter than he meant it to be.
“Hi,” replied a voice just as soft. “Maybe we should sit down.”
And they did. Noam sitting across from him in his own chair. He wanted to pull it next to him, he never wanted to be apart again. He didn’t. He didn’t want to overwhelm the other.
“My name is Dara.” He said.
Dara. “I’m Noam.”
He smiled, “I know. You wrote it over and over again on your hands when you first learned it.”
“I did?”
“I think I was six then. I can’t be sure, exactly, it was so long ago, but yeah.”
“How old are you now?” Noam asked.
“Nineteen.”
“I’m seventeen.”
He smiled again, pretty as ever. “I know that too.”
Noam didn’t want small talk today. They would have years to learn all about each other. “Why did you tell me to stop writing? Why couldn’t we meet? Where have you been?”
Dara’s smile fell immediately. He took a sip of his coffee. It was a minute before he spoke again. “I was in a bad place. I’ll tell you, I promise, but not here.” He finished his coffee and stood up. “Do you want coffee?” The question was an afterthought, overshadowed by their meeting.
Noam went slowly after him. “No, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? I did invite you to here, and all.”
Noam shrugged. “I just want to talk to you.”
Dara understood. They walked outside, down the street, to a park. Noam had been here before when he was younger.
He had his hands in his pockets. Noam could look at him now and see more. Expensive clothes, nice shoes, meeting at an expensive coffee shop. This was not the kind of person Noam expected. It made him a little angry. He watched his mother and father die, he had to drop out of school, he was working two jobs to stay alive. Dara didn’t look like he had ever gone through any of that.
This was not the kind of person Noam expected to be his soulmate.
“Why did you ask me to stop writing?”
Dara took a breath. “I was trying to protect you.”
Noam didn’t believe that.
“It’s true. I wouldn’t lie to you.” Dara was pleading. Don’t hate me, he said.
“How?”
They reached a bench. Dara sat down. Noam sat next to him. “I was adopted by a politician when I was young. A rich, powerful man.” He hesitated. “I don’t know why, but he hated seeing the writing on me. I think he must not have had a soulmate. Maybe they died, or something, I don’t know. It didn’t matter.”
Noam tried to relax against the bench. His leg pressed against Dara’s.
“He hated me, I think. I’m not sure why, I was a child. How can a person hate a child?” The last sentence came out more to himself. “He was cruel to me. It was worse when he saw your writing.”
“You could have told me.” Noam knew that wasn’t how things worked, but he was still angry.
Dara looked sad-tired, really, like he had this conversation before, with others. “No, Noam, I couldn’t. I was scared. I thought he would kill me-and then I did, eventually, build up the courage to talk about it, and no one believed me.”
Noam felt nauseous at the thought of that. “You thought I wouldn’t believe you?”
Dara shrugged. “The problem was that even if you did believe me, nothing would have changed. What could you have possibly done to help me?” It was rhetorical. “If you tried anything, he would have had you killed. I couldn’t risk that.”
“But something changed.”
“He died.” Dara didn’t look happy about it, he didn’t look sad either. “Murdered, really. Or maybe assassinated. Except, assassinations, I always thought, were planned and quiet. Stealth missions.”
Noam couldn’t say anything to that.
“A friend of mine killed him. Shot him one night, almost a year ago. Maybe more than a year, it’s hard to remember. I don’t like to think of it.” He sighed. “My friend is fine, of course. Claimed self defense, had a good lawyer. We’re actually living together right now.”
“Like, a boyfriend?”
He laughed. “No, no, not really. She got her soulmate, and I’m gay. I just feel better with her around. Neither of us knew what to do after it happened. We decided to move our of our family homes and into a little place over there.” He pointed down the street towards an expensive neighborhood.
Noam might have been in shock.
“I’m not what you expected.” He sounded a little insecure.
“I-no, you’re not.” He rushed to fix that when he saw Dara’s face fall. “I assumed you would be like me, it’s not a problem, just… unexpected. I can’t be what you imagined either.”
“I did think you would be tall,” he said. “And you are tall. The muddy shoes are a surprise, though.”
“I had actually tired to clean them before I got here too. I happened to have the misfortune of stepping right into a puddle on the way here, if you’ll believe it.”
Dara leaned towards him. Eyes shining with something like fondness. “I believe it.”
They were caught in a moment, trying to memorize each other in every way. Dara had freckles, Noam realized. And his hair had product in it. Not as effortless as it had looked.
“What about you?” Dara asked him. “You wrote to me right before… everything happened. Why?”
Noam felt the moment slip away. Neither of them had an easy life, it seems. “My parents died. I did somethings that got me in trouble. I,” he was going to say I needed you, but that wasn’t fair, “I was struggling.”
“I am sorry.” He sighed and leaned back against the bench, away from Noam. “God, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t, but Noam understood. He didn’t blame Dara for this. “I made it. We made it.”
They were quiet again for a while. The afternoon sun shining on Dara’s hair made him look ethereal.
“What do you do now?” Noam asked, wanting to touch him more than ever.
Dara took a moment to respond. “School, mostly. I like the stars. And, Ames, my roommate, tells me I like plants too much for it to be healthy. I think its stupid way of saying I need to clean more. Plants are far less clean than I remember. What about you?”
“Working. It’s all I can do right now.”
“Free time?”
“I like to run. I volunteer on Saturdays.”
Dara laughed. “Of course you volunteer. You probably enjoy it, too.”
It wasn’t meant to be mean. He didn’t mean it that way. It still felt cruel. “We can’t all afford to buy seven dollar coffee everyday.”
Dara had realized his mistake and looked apologetic. “That’s not what I meant. I think its great that you spend your time trying to help people. I haven’t spent much time around anyone who actually wants to make the world a better place in a long time.”
That was a fine apology for Noam, for now. “Why does it feel like we’re going to argue a lot?”
“All the time, I’m sure. Mostly about things with obvious answers, too. How to load the dishwasher, what side of the bed to sleep on, what to eat for dinner.”
“You look like someone who wouldn’t let me wear shoes in the house.”
“Yeah, probably,” Dara laughed.
They talked a while more. Wandered through the park, got to know each other. Noam found out Dara was really smart, like, rocket scientist smart, and had more clothes than fit in his current apartment. He also had money. Lots of money. Inherited his adopted father’s entire fortune after he died. He had so much money that he didn’t know what to do with it. Noam had ideas. He wouldn’t share them. Now wasn’t the time to convince Dara of communism. Noam told Dara of his crimes, why he was arrested. Dara wouldn’t say it, but he was impressed.
Noam felt like their conversation was effortless, and the silences comfortable. They couldn’t yet anticipate the other’s step like he had seen couples do before, but they understood each other. They felt calm in the presence of the other.
They got dinner after the sun had set at a little restaurant near the college campus. Neither of them wanted to leave. It was almost midnight when they split, exchanging numbers, social media. Noam realized he missed the last bus, so Dara got him an Uber home, claiming he was planning on doing the same, and they shared the ride back to Dara’s apartment. He didn’t want to leave.
The car was stopped. Dara got out, saying goodbye, heading to the steps of his building. Noam wasn’t satisfied. He told the driver he would be right back and got out of the car as well. Chasing Dara, taking his hand when he reached him, the other hand cupping his face, drawing him in.
They were kissing.
It felt like nothing else existed. The only thing that mattered was Dara’s hand on Noam, in his hair, on his chest. Dara’s lips on his own. It was hard to pull away. Years and years of being alone, now he finally had Dara in his arms.
Dara understood. “It’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Ill bring you lunch, okay?”
“I can’t wait that long.” Noam said, kissing Dara’s face. His forehead, his cheeks, his nose. Dara started giggling.
“You’ll have to. I have class in seven hours, and you should be getting home.”
He knew he was right. Noam kissed Dara once more before getting back into the car and waving goodbye. Noam watched Dara until he was out of sight. The driver didn’t seem to mind the wait, thankfully, and asked Noam about his day. Noam took the time to gush about Dara and explain that today was the day he had finally met his soulmate. The driver smiled like he understood, and he probably did. Noam thanked the driver before he left the car and headed back to the little apartment he was sharing with his family friend.
The next day his boss made a comment on how happy he looked. She had never seen him this way before, and it was a good change of pace. He deserved to be happy, she said. Dara stayed true to his word and brought him lunch at work that day. Expensive food, too. Dara didn’t eat but Noam made sure not to waste the leftovers.
They started having lunch regularly. A few times a week. Dara would buy pretty much all of the time, but sometimes Noam would find enough to get Dara lunch at a local restaurant. They spent more time together. Dara started to volunteer with him on Saturdays. He hated it, Noam was sure, but never said anything, and was pretty good at acting like he didn’t. Eventually, he wouldn’t mind it much, and soon he would be looking forward to it.
Three months into their relationship, Dara found out that Noam was sleeping on a too small couch somewhere, and not in a bed, like a normal person, and freaked out. Dara started asking him to move in soon after. Noam said no. That he would only move in if he could contribute to rent, and Dara knew he wouldn’t be able to afford any apartment that way.
Another three months later, and Dara claimed to have found an affordable apartment in a decent location, but since Noam was still technically a minor, the place would be under Dara’s name. Noam voiced his distrust about this arrangement. Dara told him that they would be splitting the rent evenly. He couldn’t say no.
They moved in together. Dara went to classes, Noam went to work, eventually finding a full time job in cyber security. Dara collected Noam’s rent money but used his inheritance to pay rent instead. Noam’s money went into a savings account that Dara secretly opened for him. Noam would be upset when he found out, but that didn’t matter. Dara had thought about giving it to charity, but wasn’t sure which charity would be right. And it was Noam’s money. Money that he had worked for. In a few years he might be thankful.
They wrote to each other now more than ever. Arms covered in words, affections, drawings, doodles, grocery lists, reminders. They did argue, all the time. About everything. Noam loved it. He loved Dara. He loved being with Dara and seeing his face everyday. Things weren’t perfect, they never would be, but Noam wouldn’t trade it for anything. He finally found his soulmate, and as long as they had each other, things would be okay.