What if it’s possible? What if I can choose my soulmate? I ask the drawing in my hand, still hidden in my pocket. What if I choose you, and you have someone else? What happens to the one who was meant for you?

If I have the liberty, that means I can choose Jude.

But I don’t see myself loving him so much, and I don’t want to be bound to someone I can’t.

But that guy in a green cardigan, I can consider.

God, I am so good at what I do.

He isn’t carrying a guitar with him like he is in my drawing, but he still has those bow-shaped lips, thin glasses, brown eyes, and that messy hair.

“There you are!” He beams at me with eyes as bright as Jo’s did whenever she found another accessory she wanted to buy. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Me? I mouth, pointing at myself.

He nods. “You’re an artist, yeah?”

“How did you know?”

He laughs like me being an artist is the most obvious thing in the world.

Jo once described how it felt when she met Niel — the world making itself heard, her words finding themselves a new path, and butterflies in her stomach making themselves felt. She just knew.

The world quiets down, and I’m at a loss for words to fill the silence, but it doesn’t matter because I know I don’t have to speak for him to understand me. He must’ve taken all our butterflies with him when we were halved because my heart takes it upon itself to flutter, then to race.

“Well,” he runs his fingers through his hair, his biceps trying to introduce themselves behind a layer of fat, “I was wondering if you can do makeup.”

“‘Makeup.’”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m sure you can, but we’re not sure if you’d be willing to replace one of ours. They left earlier than we expected and …”

I have never seen one before. Not everyone wears them, but I’ve seen enough people with unnatural colors mostly on their eyelids, cheeks, and lips to have an idea what it is. Touching up people’s faces simply does not have the same appeal as immortalizing beautiful imperfections of living masterpieces on canvas.

“… wants a complete set of hands in her department before the day’s end. I’m helping her find a new mentee because if we don’t, we’re toast. And —”

“You need me.”

“I need you.”

So I say yes.

“Really?” His smile widens, and his shoulders sag in relief.

I nod.

“You sure? You might need to stick around over a dozen days straight to get the hang of it with everyone, and it normally takes hours.”

“No problem!”

It’s not like I have anything else to do anyway. At least, not anymore. My search is finally over, and I still have a little over 252 days to spare — no, to spend with him, several hours of which might be taken away, but it’s fine. I’m fine. We won’t vanish.

“If you want, I can introduce you to the rest of the crew layer. Stella can show you the ropes herself before she leaves.”

“Is she available now?”

His eyes narrow. His mouth opens, but his voice remains muted in surprise for a second. “Well, she’s probably busy, but you might have a chance with our costume designer.”

“Great!”

He buries his hands in his pockets and nods sideward to one of the nearby buildings. “I’ll lead you to her then.”

He leads me into a multipurpose hall filled with nearly all sorts of talents: some dancing in pairs, some wrestling on the floor, some fighting stones with sticks, and some doing front rolls while others flip above them.

I may have been missing out, spending all my time in restaurants when all these amazing people were in this unnamed place.

The main entrance is located in the southeast, while rooms line the opposite side. Soft points stick out of the interior wall, save for the oculus that serves as the primary source of light. Small but powerful speakers are built into the eight corner posts, blasting music the troupe tries to dance to.

“Those are our dance instructors,” he tells me with a nod to the east, then to the west. “Those are backup dancers, but they’ve got an entire crew. They perform on the streets more often. You might have seen them before.” When we reach the center of the hall, right under the glass ceiling, he points north. “They choreograph fight scenes, and they —” he turns to the south, “— do our stunts.”

“Awesome.”

“The backstage people hang out here,” he continues as he leads me to the northwest side of the octagon. “Hair and makeup to the left, costumes to the right, and the rest up ahead.”

“Thanks, um …”

“Andrea.” He offers a hand to shake.

God, your hands are soft.

“Dre for short.”

Oh, you're that Dre.

Scenes from the play flash in my mind, seeing Paula with him instead of Herbert, but his hand around mine holds me in the present.

“Bea,” I manage to say.

“I know.”

You do?

“Look, I’ll need to round up the others.” Dre keeps his eyes on me as he slowly starts to walk backward, and as much as I love eye contact, he really should watch out for those stones. “If you can’t find Gab, wait for Pau.”

“Okay. Yeah, sure. Thanks. Be careful!”

“I will!”

A stone hits his temple right at that moment. Red liquid oozes out and drips down the side of his face.

I rush to his side, but he waves me away like it happens all the time, and takes a handkerchief out of his pocket to press on the wound.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a carefree smile. “This won’t even be a scar tomorrow.”

Right. All injuries heal overnight. Ramon mentioned that during the orientation.

“Be careful.”

He dismisses me with an encouraging nod, and I return the most trusting smile I can muster to hide my concern.

Shouting starts as soon as I’m in the safety of the walls of the northwest corridor.

“It really is safer here,” someone pipes up from deeper in the hallway, “from sticks, stones, and words alike.”

The boy who threw the stone gets scolded; the one who failed to block it with the stick gets upbraided next.

“Why do they even pour their heart and soul into all this? We’re not even on Earth yet.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Everyone will be born with skills to hone, but only those who practice their passion here will be born with pure talent.”

“That a fact?” I glance behind me to find a southeastern girl with a maroon onesie clinging to her slender body and gold leaves on hoops hanging from her earlobes. How she can stand the cold with her sleeves folded above her elbow, I have no idea.

“Yeah, Ramon said so.” The fashionista sounds close enough that I turn around to offer a hand.

Connections are connections.

“I’m Bea.”

“I’ve heard about you,” she says enthusiastically as her slender hand shakes mine. “My name is Gabro. Costume designer.”

“I can tell.”

She giggles, looking proud and confident.

My eyes flit down to the gold zipper running down her chest, to the metal belt with a buckle matching her earrings, to her gold heels.

I can’t help it. This model might just be one of His finest works.

“Oh, I borrowed your girl’s belt.” She pulls her hand away and slides her fingers across the belt, which I recognize from the other night. “She was looking for you by the way.”

‘Your girl’?

Must be some guild lingo. Regardless, I know whom she’s talking about. I hope I do. Uh, not in that way though. It’s just that she invited and brought me out here. Common courtesy and all that.

“I’ll show you around first.” Gabro loops an arm through mine and leads me down the corridor to the right, which is basically a room full of fitting rooms with walls of clothes separating them. Gabro goes through every aisle — for men, women, children, aliens — before showing me the backroom.

Shoes of the same style or purpose go on the same wall, grouped by size, and sorted by color. With every aisle beginning with a bizarre shoe — slippers looking like fried milkfish, shoes that look like living rats, disgusting foot gloves — they practically have the equivalent of street signs, but the amount of shoe racks and the repeating cycle of colors at every turn is just too much.

“I … don’t have to worry about outfits, do I?” I ask as soon as the wardrobe’s well behind us.

Gabro looks at me with raised brows and pursed lips.

With the air now still at our abrupt stop and with the smell of rubber, plastic, and different cloths out of the way, I can already smell her perfume, and it’s a welcome scent after that suffocating tour.

“Dre said you only needed help with makeup.”

“Oh, yeah!” She nods, then shrugs as if only now realizing my purpose for coming. “Well, no harm knowing the place.”

She brings me along to the next room, which vaguely reminds me of the restrooms in the east that never fail to have an adjacent powder room. The desks are arranged in rows with no dividers. Mirrors wait in front of every seat with two columns of light for each.

The only columns of light switched on are focused on Paula, who uses them as a light source for reading. The actress has her back turned to the desk, her legs crossed, her right hand rolling a coin, and her left hand blocking most of her face with sheets of paper that all I can see are her eyes.

"Hey."

They shift from a worried gaze into one of relief. It’s almost like watching the red curtains rise, but that tender look of triumph flees faster than it arrives, like blinds shutting closed after a cautious peek.

“Over 200 days, and you still can’t do your makeup?”

“Over two weeks, and you’ve never seen a blender?”

The costume designer shoots the actress an alarmed look.

My bad. I should not have stared at that kit.

"Relax, Gab." Paula chuckles as she turns to drop her coin and her copy of the screenplay on the table. "Her name is not in your file yet."

"Yeah," Gab tries for a humorous smile, but the tension remains on her forehead. "She better be worth the space."

The actress only nods before directing all her attention to me. "You look worried."

I do?

Paula apologizes as she prompts me to take a seat. "We don't have to talk about it."

"Do you think we can choose our soulmates?"

She pauses, eyes searching for an answer on the blank side of her copy of the screenplay, along the edge of her comfort coin. Upon finding the answer among camelia and winterberries accented with mahonia and snowdrops, all wrapped snugly in a gray cloth framed with a gold wire, she shakes her head. “No. That is not how it works."

"You hesitated."

"You already know my take on that crap."

"Sure you didn't plant the idea in Jude’s head when you mentioned me?"

"You give me too much credit."

“I’m blaming you. There’s a difference. Or do you not care because a mark is a mark?”

She shoots me a quizzical look through the mirror.

"It's not Jude."

Paula faces me, and I expect her to tell me that my soulmate is still out there, that I will find him, and that he is worth the wait.

Not that she has to. Her eyes say it all.

"I'm sorry."

No, it's not your fault. “Stupid false hope.”

“All hope is false until its moment of truth.”

You’re not helping!

Sorry. "So, how did you find out?"

"Gut feeling."

"Oof. Looks like you ignored it."

"My tummy never spoke before today!"

"Kid. You feed it every day, and you never learned its language?"

"I hate you —"

"You can't. I'm your only friend right now."

I bury my head in my lap, with my palms pressed against my face.

What if we lost them because we don’t need them after all?

You having nothing might mean you can choose anyone. Anyone at all.

I need you.

Jude needs me more, I argue.

“Stop worrying, Bea. He doesn’t need you.”

“Oh, like you would know what it means to be needed.”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

“You’re only needed for your talents.”

“Thanks to my mentors.”

She turns away and reaches for a bag on the next table, muscles casting soft shadows along her arm as she stretches forward. She has faint scars near her elbow, probably from another hobby she never mentioned. Did she have to train like the ones outside? Did those marks come from the same activities that toned her arms? How many mentors did it take to be so …

“I can feel you judging me again,” she notes as she returns to her seat.

“I wouldn’t say ‘judging.’ Just wondering. Like, how many slots you took from others.”

“I made friends with the mentees,” she explains as she searches the bag, “learned as they did. Sped up the search. It was efficient.”

Tch, you never even found your soulmate. “Met anyone who needed help existing?”

“I did.”

Oh. “And you jus— How did— That didn’t make you stop and think?”

“I guess I was too distracted to.”

Paula finds and takes a purple pouch out of the bag and returns the latter, then starts taking stuff out of the pouch starting with a primer.

“Learning felt like adding hues to a palette,” she continues, “First, skills related to my passion. Next thing I know, I spent a week in a lab.”

She’s lining them up. What’s this going to be, a test? I have no idea what that tiny rectangle is. Why isn’t that pink powder along with the rest of the colorful rectangles?

“Eventually, I got tired of it. With all the workshops I attended, the lectures I sat in, I felt like useless set.” At that, Paula brings out a set of brushes, my choice of blender. I refuse to color someone’s face with what should be a plate cleaner.

“So I took a break.” With the last of the tools on her desk, she sits back down and faces me.

“I focused on the band with Daniel until someone put the rest of my skills to the test. God’s masterpiece, that one. Me, I was nothing but colors. But that … that perfect soul needed my help. So yes, Bea, I do understand. But I also know our world adheres to a strict set of rules none of us can break. We don’t even have the capacity to understand it. We rely on theorists for that. Creatives like myself only look to them for inspiration; people like Jude turn to them for hope.”

“How did you help your Jude?”

Paula turns again to pass me a hand sanitizer to clean my hands and buy herself time.

“Made myself useful.”

"I ... could just choose him."

She purses her lips and shakes her head in firm negation.

“Or you could!”

She raises a brow at me. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“I’m serious! Do you have any disabilities?

No.

“Are you tone-deaf?”

Definitely not.

“Colorblind? Got tattoos and timers?”

The actress rolls her eyes, swiveling so that her eyes practically sweep the room.

“No, Pau. Obviously not.”

“Bea.”

Something about the way she said my name shuts my brain up.

She continues as if speaking to a toddler testing her patience. “What part of ‘that is not how it works’ do you not understand?"

“What if something happens to him? What if it does happen and you could have stopped it?”

Paula shakes her head in defeat. She purses her lips, drawing a deep breath before trying again. “Would doing my face let your mind rest a bit? Keep your hands busy?”

Yes! God, yes.

“Good, ‘cause we need something to show Gab.”

Anything to forget him again. I jump to Paula's side and rotate her chair so that the mirror reflects her profile.

A thin layer of natural colors already hides what little imperfections she has, probably for the film. There is really not much for me to do but retouch it.

The colors come to me as I go. Her lips alone challenge me — not the color, but the shape. Something about the tips that makes them hard to outline; I don’t think I ever really finish doing her makeup.

“I need to catch Gabro,” she reminds me halfway through, “so try to get it done before nightfall.”

So I give up.

Built on stroke after stroke of powder and paint on the last canvas I would have considered using, the bubble around us pops at the dull click of the twistable liner. The rhythmic beating of sticks and stones welcomes themselves into the room again, accompanied by the gentle tap of drizzle on the roof and one-way windows. I barely paid any heed to the unfamiliar smell of makeup until it was overcome by the scent of flowers rushing back to my nostrils. Even the lights look brighter.

It's nighttime already?

“Be back in a minute.” Paula rushes out, then I hear Gab’s voice in the hallway. The clock above the doorway says she still has a few seconds left, but she returns before the minute ends.

For an inexperienced makeup artist, I think I did quite well.

Different shadows ring her eyes now, making them look like thunderclouds seeking a ground to strike. Her brows … well, they’re practically flawless on their own so I didn’t touch them as much. The blushers on the wrong parts of her face look so right; the shades of red from her cheekbones to her temple make her look more intimidating, and they match the burgundy of her lips so well. The earrings she’s wearing plus the silver necklace mostly hidden under her shirt don’t help with what I’m feeling right now.

“Sorry about that.” Her lips curve into a lopsided smile that tells me she’s resisting the urge to laugh. “If you’re still buying that nonsense, I hope you choose someone better than Jude. It’s not worth loving out of pity.”

“Hold on.”

I have never drawn anything I ended up tearing out of sheer desire, but it takes all my willpower to wipe the edge of her lips without smearing the rest of it, to brush her hair with my fingers without pulling her, to add final touches at her neck without seizing her collar and —

God, I hope my soulmate can’t read my mind.

Touching up people’s faces might not have the same appeal as immortalizing beautiful imperfections of living masterpieces on canvas, but it appeals to me regardless.