Paula turns my living room into a studio while my bedroom doubles as a full-on wardrobe. It takes her an entire reprise for me to tidy up and change into my best clothes, or at least the ones that best complement Paula’s outfit lest I underdress. Once we’re out of my unit, it only takes half a song for me to regret wearing heels to minimize what little height difference we had.

Heeled boots were not made for our sandy streets. And I was not meant to give my first dance away to Jo — not that it mattered that much — but here we are. Considering Paula’s last words to Jo and her present demeanor, there’s no way it's a coincidence.

“How did you know?” I ask when the clouds pass us, forcing Paula to an abrupt intermission so she could take out her sunglasses.

She glances at me as she unfolds them. About Jo or the guitarist?

Jo.

Now equipped with shades, she leads us through a series of narrow alleys that are oddly more spacious than the crowded streets. “She told me her age when we met.”

“How did you meet?”

“I approached this loner who looked like she hated live bands and asked why she’d been eating in that same restaurant three days in a row.”

That doesn’t sound like Jo. She loves live bands. It’s practically a requirement for lunch.

“What did she say?”

“She didn’t catch the question.”

Oh.

“It was a relief, actually. Dre was particularly scared he wasn’t a good enough vocalist.”

There’s that name again.

“So you wasted your time talking to a random stranger because your friend, who happens to be in a band, thought someone like Jo, of all people, hated his performance.”

“No. I made friends with a deaf loner because my bandmates and I thought we’ve been ruining someone’s dinner three days in a row while scouting the south for our soulmates.”

“Wait. I thought acting's your one and only.”

“It is my number one, but it’s not my only.”

That doesn’t make sense. Each of us gets gifted with only a single talent — our passion — while the rest can only be learned, and this world runs on passion. It’s the same reason cooks can never replace bakers even if they could.

God, this girl is being unfair in more ways than one.

“Wait, so singing was your first?”

She scoffs, smiling fondly at a memory.

“I will take that as a yes.”

“Jo got me into the guild, then on stage, and I fell in love.”

Acting is not your passion?

“I love theatre. I always have since day one.”

“How come you were in a band playing in lobbies and cafés? That’s far from theatre.”

“Same reason you’re always drawing in restaurants,” she replies, mimicking my tone. “They’re so far from museums.”

“Hey!”

She chuckles, and despite her most expressive asset being hidden, it still moves me.

“I hate you.” My fist hits her upper arm.

In turn, she grabs something from a rack she nearly falls into and hits me right on the crown with it.

“Really?” I take the fluffy thing off my head. “This is the best you can —”

I have no idea when the brown gravel turned red, but the ground proves we’re no longer in the southeast. Instead of water buffalo carts and kubo stalls, thatched rondavels stand along one side of the path while modular wooden stalls line up the opposite. Most of them offer clothes fit for the weather — boots, socks, coats, gloves, beanies — but a select few offer loose, bright apparel and patterned garments that remind me of Jo’s favorite sheets.

“It’s still snowing in the west,” Paula says matter-of-factly as she replaces the winter cap on my head.

Hold on. When did you get that back?

"You have a loose grip for someone with heavy hands." She mumbles as she takes my right in her left.

The warm colors, the earthy scents, the intricate patterns around solid colors — it’s all so Jo.

We continue walking, her eyes locked ahead and mine trained on the supplementary colors of our boots as their background changes from rust to ochre, from gravel to cobblestone.

“Are you bringing me to her unit?”

“Some other time, kid. That won’t help. You still look like you want to cry.”

I tug her arm for her to stop and face me. “What did you just call me?”

“You’re younger than me.”

“You’re not even born yet, kid.”

“I can’t just walk around calling everyone embryos though, can I?”

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

Ugh. “Great! You're a nerd too.” If anyone sucks at being soulmates, it’s those science-y folk. They only ever geek about new toys no one even needs, much less understand. In fact, they're the ones who'd never move out of their units for their soulmate.

“You’re associating me with everything.” First, actors. Then, musicians. Now, those?

“Is it impossible?” You’ve been breaking all the rules!

Just one for my soulmate, and one for myself. “Music and theatre. That’s it.”

For yourself huh.

Paula squeezes my hand when we reach the exit to the west, alder and rowan trees welcoming us to an aisle of snow-capped shrubs in a white-washed town. Several more cubits and we finally reach a diner lined with pink and blue lights.

The neon glow, black and white tiles, and red sofas are familiar — there’s no restaurant in this world I haven’t been to anyway — but this is the last diner I would go to, what with the frigid climate and a group of mostly tall people barricading several square cubits with boxes and tripods. It is hard talking to people with eyes conspicuously glued to models, dancers, actors, or whatever it was those camera people had their lenses aimed at.

As fate would have it, they’re in the area today too, but luckily, they aren't too close to the diner. Herbert’s band would lose to such competition.

Well, it’s not really Herbert’s band. It’s Chloe’s.

Chloe is undeniably an enchanting singer. The diner is not as noisy as it was the couple of times I’ve been here, and most of the patrons have their eyes locked on the far end of the room. However, I think she’s better off on Mitch’s tapes. At least when people hear her music from the speakers, they do not see full lips carrying the beats out of one’s mouth, or long fingers gliding over the strings of a guitar. At least when unseen, she gets to keep the spotlight.

“Jude’s the guitarist,” Paula tells me as she finds us a booth. “He’s good.”

“‘Good’? He's great!”

He is not the first guitarist I’ve seen. There was this outdoor performance during the tour, right before that storm. Some groups do haranas in one of the restaurants in the east. A duo always performs in the lobby of my building. They all got guitarists, but none like Jude.

He plucks the strings in a deliberate pattern, flicks his wrist at just the right moments to add flavor to the beat that Herbert creates. Just when his instrument becomes the loudest out of the accompaniments, he plays a few gentle notes on a single string to blend with the singer’s voice.

It’s mesmerizing.

The smoke rising from a mug in my periphery reminds me to blink.

“How can you not want to find your soulmate?” Referencing the song that just ended, I ask Paula as she slides the cup of coffee on the table, which I eagerly take into my hands.

“Say you do get lucky and they let you take the test — aren’t you afraid of being alone?”

An ice-cold strawberry milkshake waits patiently for the actress to decide which metal straw to use for the drink. How she’s taking that in this weather — in this place where it snows and the heaters are not enough for me — I have no idea.

“Were you at the back during your orientation?”

“No, I was in front. And what does that have to do with this?”

“So you weren’t listening.”

I can’t deny that. Ramon is more boring than a book without pictures.

“He said Earth is a worse version of this place. I’m not sure how much of it would be like this, but I’m pretty sure I’ll meet friends to get me by.”

“Don’t you feel incomplete?”

She doesn’t answer; just takes a sip of that cold, pink beverage.

I take a sip of my drink: hot, strong, and sweet — just how I like it. “You should try this sometime. Might warm your heart.”

She only scoffs at the comment.

"Or, you know, join them."

“How long will it take for you to know if he's not your soulmate?” Paula asks, ignoring my suggestions.

The band is already somewhere in the middle of another song, but my eyes return to them in time to catch the solo riff.

“It depends.” Most of the guys I spoke with told me upfront if they’re sure I’m not their soulmate, including the actor-slash-beatboxer. Some took minutes of questions thrown back and forth, but a select few took hours wondering why they still don’t see color — or still do not see at all — when we already found each other, considering those are common signs of one’s soulmate being a visual artist.

When Chloe introduces the guitarist, Jude waves before he sets the guitar down on a stand. Herbert bows at the mention of his name the way he did at the end of the play, and Paula readily meets him at the side.

Wait.

We are five booths away. The aisles are not spacious, and there is only one way for her to get there: right in front of me. But somehow, she’s now in his arms.

“At this point, they’ll mistake each other as their halves during the test.”

“I’m pretty sure they are.” I mean, not only do they look good together; they look complete.

A guy in a brown pullover sits across from me. “Herb told me they’re not, and he doesn’t lie.”

Prominent cheekbones. Strong jaw. Thin lips.

Yeah, you’re totally my new subject.

“Not that anyone in this world does,” the guitarist adds. “Honestus made sure of that.”

“Honestus?”

I’d scour my memory bank right now if his blue eyes weren’t so distracting, but judging by what he said, Honestus is probably responsible for liars getting unwanted scars. Or so the rumor goes. I’ve only ever met one guy with several scars, all of which he earned from martial arts.

He laughs, probably assuming I meant it as a joke.

Oh, well.

“Jude.” He reaches a hand across the table, and I take it only to yank my hand back.

I’ve heard people talk about how sparks fly when they meet their soulmate — it’s debatable how many of them meant it literally — but what of the ones that pass silently between two people? What of this electric shock?

We must have wasted a few seconds asking each other with our eyes what that was, that Jude feels the need to remind himself out loud that they only have a fifteen-minute break before he has to play again.

“Well, I’m Bea.”

“I heard. So are you going to start your resto interrogation here or do you want to go somewhere else?”

“Sorry, who told you that? Niel?”

“I don’t know who that is, but Herb told me you went asking around after their show last night.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call that interrogation.”

“Agreed. Last night sounded more like speed dating.”

“Ew, no. Restaurant dates are lame.”

“Where would you take me then? Sports game? Picnic? Museum?”

“I’ve actually only been to one museum, so maybe you can take me to a good one.”

“Oh, I know a lot of good ones, but I wouldn’t bring anyone there on a date.”

“Why not?”

“Can’t touch an artwork and all that?”

“Someone’s got to pin ‘em to the wall, though.”

A hand suddenly touches my shoulder, just in time to pull my reins.

“Feeling better?” Paula asks.

As if on cue, Herbert takes Jude. Be right back, he mouths before leaving with his friend.

“I guess so?”

Less than ten minutes with the boy, and I totally forgot about the only two people I ever really loved in this place. Only now do I realize I felt strangely secure the entire time as if Jo and Niel came with me, like they were somewhere close by talking to other people on my behalf, and I could share a few looks with them every couple hours or so. Except it has only been minutes.

“Yeah.” I nod. “Yeah, I think I am. And heck, he might be my soulmate.”

“Really?”

For someone who thinks people are better off without soulmates, she sure sounds more thrilled than I am. Maybe I shouldn’t have felt so strongly that night.

“And here I thought you don’t care about soulmates.”

“Eh, this is the same feeling I get when I see people shed tears because of our performance.”

Scratch that. I may have been fooled for a second there.

Paula gives me a mischievous look, like she saw me cry because of the climax that night — a scene that showcased her talent as well as her beauty when she took off her mask — and I hate it. She’s doing it again, whatever it is.

I mean, come on. It’s normal to trip sometimes, and such an accident must not be ashamed of. It’s normal to ask all those dumb questions when we’re told our only options are to complete ourselves or experience something worse than death. And considering the number of people who cried over that play, even if it was my first time watching one, I say it is absolutely normal to cry over some drama.

“It’s called fulfillment, Bea. There are other things beyond aside from your partner that can make you feel that way.”

Name what I feel around you, and I just might try a new hobby.