He’s your soulmate.

You know, because his initials are engraved into your wrist—an elegant ‘A.D’, sprawled out like those brands you find on prized cattle.

It burns, it hurts, and when you look at him—‘A.D’ you see only a burst of colour. A fire of neon oranges and soft pinks and when the flames die down, you notice how sickly he looks. How sad his eyes are.

“You’re her,” he says and you nod.

He stares down at his wrist for a moment, before looking back at you.

“You’re mine.”