Chapter Text
December 19th, 2025
Send it.
The fingerless gloves did very little to protect your hands from the cold, hard gusts of wind making the white envelope move in every direction but the mailbox you meant to put it in. You bit your lip, shuddering. What had been intended as a brisk walk around the block had turned into a miserable back-and-forth between you and the letter.
Just send it, and be done with it. He might not even read it.
…And what if he does, another voice mused, gently and terrible.
You stared at the letter, unmoving. People were brushing against you as they passed, probably noticing your trepidation, which was bad, because you weren’t supposed to draw attention to yourself. The grocery store across the street would be closed within the hour, and people were rushing to do some last minute holiday shopping.
Screw this. You folded up the envelope and shoved it in the pocket of your fluffy jacket, readjusting your scarf so it would better cover your neck. You should at least buy yourself dinner before wrecking your life, really, and it might be somewhat warmer in the store, and you were freezing.
If the envelope had a mouth and a personality to go with it, the paper would probably call you a coward. As it was, it only sat quietly in your pocket. The object would be right. You were running from something, again, brushing into the store as if the concrete walls would hide the inevitable. Shame, it seemed, had slowly seeped itself further and further into the delicate bindings of your life, the way you walked and talked and thought, the way you pretended to be apathetic, yet, sometimes, deep into the night, could do nothing but trace the shallow, scarred ridges just below your ear.
No, it hadn’t been mere aspects of your body that you’d grown to hide. Not anymore. A few months ago, you’d made the resolution to stop spending a fortune on concealers and foundation, but that oath had broken weeks ago. The resolution to stop lying, too, had been broken shortly, when a friend had mentioned in passing how extraterrestrial life might have the same affliction, and was it really an affliction then, or just alien nature, a different way for soul-bonds to present themselves — all you could hear was your mothers voice: a different way for you to expose your non-humanity, to endanger yourself, endanger us!
You’d told your friend you had no interest in finding your other half, and would rather spend your time on other things, like working and worrying about fascism. She’d given you a skeptical look but did not indulge in the topic any further.
Anyway. Dinner.
The store was bustling with people, filled with workers who would probably rather be at home and people like you who should really better their time management, but you managed to squeeze through the masses and select some ingredients for what would (could?) resemble pasta. There was a discount on holiday wines, great for drinking your sorrows away, and as you went to grab a bottle of red (or tried to, at least, straining to reach the upper level) a passing man noticed your struggle and reached up to help. He smiled as he handed you the bottle, a bright red and white label reading ‘HOLIDAY STRESS RELIEVER’ with a happy-looking gingerbread man next to it. You shrugged and moved the bottle to your basket, thanking the man softly.
He opened his mouth to say something, before his eyes caught onto your neck.
Shit.
You hadn’t noticed your scarf move from its carefully curated position as you’d reached for the bottle. Your mind reeled as you tried desperately to think of something to change the topic, move his attention elsewhere. Your normally sharp, effective focus had been terrible these past few months and you dreaded the day you'd pay for that.
“It’s a tattoo,” you blurted out a little too fast, just as he said, “that looks cool.”
“So no, it isn’t a-” you blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Your… tattoo,” the man spoke. “It looks cool.”
“Ah,” you said, not entirely sure how to feel. “Thank you,” you said after a few seconds.
“You shouldn’t have to hide it,” he spoke again, nodding to himself. You noticed the colorful pins on his jacket. “It’s a part of you, no?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” you murmured. “It’s just a hassle. You know, with all the, uh, anti-tattoo groups out and about.”
“Right,” the man said. “I don’t think hiding yourself is going to make those go away.”
“No,” you swallowed. “I guess not.”
“Have a nice night,” he said, leaving you to stand, a little befuddled, in the isle.
Maybe fear had simply won the very first time you’d moved to cover up your mark. Lying was a slippery slope, it seemed, and a financially debilitating one too, when your monthly budget strained to cover groceries and rent. Everything to look like a normal person with a normal life, everything to protect yourself, just like your parents had taught you.
You swiped your card, wishing the cashier a good night. When you passed the mailbox, you hesitated.
No, hiding wouldn’t change your reality in any way you hoped for. It wouldn’t mould your days, magically, to the life you desired. You checked your coat, feeling for the envelope again.
Within it were two papers. One an imprint of your soul mark, carefully copied from your skin onto parchment paper. It’s symbols and sharp edges resembled a pixelated image you’d seen posted to Tumblr about seven months ago.
The second one a paper with a ten-digit phone number, along with a note which you hoped would be aggravating enough to, at the very least, gain his curiosity.
Tracing the edges, you exhaled and pushed it through the slot.