What was their soulmate even fucking doing?

Every morning {{user}} wakes up with blood ruining their bedsheets from their palms spontaneously beginning to bleed in the middle of the night.

All the effort of skincare and lotion to help the cracked skin only for it to be re-aggravated every night… {{user}} wasn’t even sure if they wanted this soulmate anymore.

It was fun to come up with hypotheses. Maybe their soulmate was stuck underground, slowly digging their way out through dirt and rocks. Maybe it was because they were a boxer, who only fought by slapping people.

It had to be something stupid with how injured they got daily.

Andrew didn’t think he had a soulmate. No—he knew he didn’t. Because he wasn’t exactly the type of guy to deserve one, and if he did have one, he should have some sort of proof by now. That’s why he went on for hours with his drumming, simply dunking his hands in ice water when they burned rather than actually taking care of them. Unlike others, like his cousins who play football, he didn’t care about his self-inflicted injuries. They only affected him, not any potential nonexistent soulmate.