I stumble on the streets, trying to stay under the canopy with the lovebirds.

Why do those dumb clouds decide to pour at the worst possible time? Every damn time.

Maybe I shouldn’t have talked to the actor — Herbert, I heard others call him, not Dre — and stayed with the couple instead. Niel loves Jo too much to try and stop her from downing shot after shot in my absence. I get his point though — there aren’t a lot of rules here, and no amount of toxic substances would harm our bodies. Might as well make the most of it.

I didn’t get to make the most of it. Sure, it wasn’t entirely pointless — some of the couples knew searching souls like me, and Herbert’s network is wider than mine — but I could’ve talked to more. If Jo hadn’t forced me to dance, I could’ve asked Paula if she knew anyone who might be my soulmate.

If she gave up, then that means she tried first. She must’ve met a lot of people and gone through a lot of rejection for her to see things the way she does now.

It’s past the 23rd hour on the clock when we arrive at our floor, and exactly half an hour before tomorrow when we reach Niel’s apartment.

“Thanks, B.” Niel huffs as soon as we lay Jo on the bed. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

He heads straight for the bathroom, and I lead myself out of their place and into the hallway in time to see a girl in an emerald dress and a gold belt climbing up the stairs alone. I’ve never seen her around here before, but then again, I’ve never stayed out this late.

“Not making a lot of friends with that mentality, I see.”

“And how many have you made?” She replies without looking down.

“More than you.” Folly, I know, but I can’t take back what I said. It is what I see after all. Why else would an actress walk home alone without an escort? Even couples walk with newcomers so they don’t feel alone. It’s basic etiquette.

She doesn’t respond. She just glances at me, and I somehow feel her waiting for an actual answer.

“Two.” She probably won’t hear it over my footsteps rushing up the steps anyway.

“Three,” Paula says when I catch up.

That doesn’t seem right. I mean, really – more than two hundred days, and she’s only made three friends? Impossible. It sounds more like a correction.

“Just because you’re an actress, doesn’t mean everyone wants to be friends with you.”

Paula stops at the next landing and turns to face me. “Bold of you to assume that’s what I meant.” She takes a step back down, and heat rises in my cheeks. Embarrassment? Or maybe celebrities just have that effect. I don’t know.

But does she even count as one? Probably not if she only has three friends.

“I appreciate you walking with me though. Can I walk you home?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Friendly or not, connections are connections. Her co-actors and whoever else might help me find my soulmate. Better yet, she might have already met him back when she was still searching.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“So, um,” I take a step back, “why did you give up on —?”

Damn it! We could’ve taken the elevator.

She pauses next to me so we’re on the same step, and mumbles something about being grateful to the inventor of railings.

Sure, I wouldn't have died if I fell, and any broken bones would heal overnight, but I’m nowhere near interested in knowing how that feels.

“I already told you,” she answers as we continue our descent. “I just don’t care anymore.”

“If the world goes off balance because you two vanish, I’ll tell the world you’re to blame.”

“Nice to know I’ll be remembered, but by then, you’d be blaming people who don’t exist.”

Good point. And if they don’t exist, there’s technically no one to blame. They would be nothing. Gone. Erased. Forgotten.

“Can I come in?” Paula pulls me away from my thoughts, and I realize I’ve already entered the living room and taken off my jacket with the door still open.

It’s getting late, is what I mean to tell her, but my voice box rejects that input, and for whatever reason, forwards it to my feet, which somehow processes it as a signal to give way.

She scans the room before she enters, as if wary of hidden cameras or booby traps. In the next moment, she has her eyes locked on the gallery. “You sure this is a guy you’re going to marry?” She sounds indifferent, but it looks like she’s scrutinizing my favorite work — well, second to the one in my pocket.

“That one’s taken.” If he wasn’t, that sketch would still be in my pocket.

“Siblings can be soulmates, you know.”

First off, just no. No. Second? “Um, isn’t there supposed to be a gap?”

“Never heard of twins?” Paula says as she moves on to the next item of interest.

Well, that was stupid.

With her eyes trained on the guitar at the corner, she asks, “Do you play?”

“Games, not instruments.”

“So,” she picks up a racket leaning on the wall adjacent to the instrument, “you play?”

“Yeah, I think I can.”

She nods in acknowledgment. “Yuu and Aya — they’re twins. Yuu used to be paralyzed, and Aya — well, good thing this isn’t Earth yet because it would’ve been pretty hard to redeem herself. Mitch had to drag her to Yuu.”

I’ve never heard of such a case before — both siblings and paralysis — but I’ve heard of Mitch, the DJ who always ate blueberry pancakes for breakfast in the west, and played Chloe’s songs on repeat during downtime across that restaurant.

“What were their passions?”

“Leadership and dancing.”

“What the —” Mitch and Chloe’s were both music, and they had a hard time finding each other for over two dozen days, but this?

“Yeah.” Paula saves her ears from a curse. “So do you have any, um, disabilities?

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Are you tone deaf?” She takes a coin out of her pocket and rolls it across her fingers as she scans all four walls and corners again.

“No? I mean, I can tell if someone’s off-key.”

“Colorblind?”

“Do you not see the amount of paint that I have?”

“You can have all the colors and still see them wrong.” Her reply is swift as if compensating for how slowly I had enunciated my question.

“And I’m guessing no tattoos and timers.” The coin stops on its side between her ring and pinky fingers.

“Yeah,” I reply with a sigh. Those would have made this all easier.

“So. Your person would know how to play the guitar.”

My person? My person. God, that sounds nice.

“You think so?”

“What did you think all this stuff is for?” Paula’s question counters my excitement as she gestures at the guitar, the untouched ointments, and the dusty books. She walks back to the door as if retreating in defeat, or maybe guilt upon realizing how harsh she sounded.

I’d say Niel, first aid, and Jo, but maybe not.

“I only know one though.”

Was that disappointment … or regret?

“What — Niel?” Ridiculous.

“What? No.” The way she opens the door makes it seem like she’s more bothered than I am by the absurdity. “He’s a bassist.”

Oh, right. Jo always pointed out the difference, but I never paid attention. Guess I should’ve.

“Thanks for letting me in,” Paula faces me and dips her head as she quietly swings the door close, “and for seeing the show.”

“Wait! You haven’t —”

— told me his name.

By the time I’ve completely reopened the door and gone out the hallway, the elevator doors are already closing. I never thought I’d be betrayed by the location of my own unit. The distance from my door to the elevator lounge has always my ally; I’ve never seen it work so conveniently for someone else.

Well, that was helpful.