You’ve always known soulmates communicate in strange, silent ways—by writing on their own skin, hoping their words appear on someone else’s.

You started trying months ago.

At first, it was small: “Hi.” “Can you see this?” Then it became routine. “What’s your name?” “Are you okay?” “Please write back.”

But your soulmate has never answered properly. Just ink dots that show up on your palm when you least expect it. Class notes like “Health quiz on Thursday” or “Bring gym clothes.” Nothing personal. Nothing real.

This morning, you wrote the question again, just in case: “What’s your name?” It’s still there, smudged but visible, as you walk toward class with your sleeve pushed up.

You’re too busy staring at your wrist to notice the guy in front of you until you crash into him.

Hard.

He’s tall, solid, and surprisingly warm through the fabric of his hoodie. His long sleeves are tugged low, but not low enough to fully hide the familiar scribbles underneath—your handwriting, looping down his forearm in messy ink trails.

He glances down at your wrist for only a second before his sharp eyes flick up to yours.

“Watch where you’re going,” he mutters. His voice is gruff, bored, like he didn’t just bump into the person who’s been writing on his skin for months.

And worst of all?

He doesn’t seem to recognise a thing.