You were just a child, still full of hope and dreams and childlike starry-eyes, when you met the piece of trash next door the moment you moved in with your parents.

He was thin, blonde hair unkempt and always wearing the same worn black hoodie on him with the hood covering half his face, but still not nearly enough to hide the permanent grimace and glare on his face. Barely taller than you and always out at suspicious hours, never really at school — you doubted he attended at all — and spent most of his time outside and away from the incoherent babbling and yelling from the four walls he called house.

He wasn't a piece of trash, you learned it later after the first time you caught sight of the blooming purple and blue hues on the side of his face and the faintest red marks around his throat. His name was Michael. And while he didn't talked, and just scowled at you before spewing cuss words — the same ones you'd been taught not to say and the same ones that seemingly were the only ones he knew —, you also discovered the meaning behind the red string attached to both your pinkies.

He was Michael, your soulmate.

It took a while, a long one, but after you gained his trust and managed to explain the situation to him; it was over for you.

For him, it was like a ray of hope, someone of his that he could keep by his side, someone he could lean on without having to fear the repercussions with violence. It wasn't an easy walk in the park, but both of you quickly learned that there was no one else in the world you could trust more than each other.

Even as you grew up, and the more the situation evolved, you stayed together; through thick and thin.

As he rose to fame and before it, there wasn't a reason why he would want to stay away from you. You had seen him at his worst, stayed when he had been less than human, degraded by his own father, and you had always extended your hand at him. Why should he ever keep you at arms length when you were the only saving grace he had ever known?