the one where every lie your soulmate tells you appears on your skin.

There is a prickling pain on her arm as words crawl their ways on pale expanse of her exposed skin. It says, “I ate.” There are other words tattooed on her thigh that says, “I’m fine.” Another one on her abdomen, “There is nothing wrong with me.” The list can goes on and it’d be composed of small, everyday lies and she suspects her soulmate is someone like crème brulee – tough exterior hiding a small and soft fragile heart. She can imagine her soulmate to be a kid, younger than her, and acts like they’re all grown up.

It is raining as she heads downtown, a bright pink umbrella in hand and a handbag on the other. She hears hushed murmurs from two adjoined heads belong to two females, one black-haired head and one hooded head, and she slows down – other people’s lives are interesting.

“I don’t need your hoodie nor an umbrella,” the black-haired female scream whispers and Tiffany stops. She can feel it again, the prickling pain across her palm down her wrist which spells the exact words black-hair had said, and she knows she’s found her. She stills in the middle of the sidewalk and blatantly stares at black-hair, eyes wide with amazement.

Black-hair lifts her head to glare at her, hair damp and sticking to her forehead and there is a twist of plain rage on her face, and she’s beautiful. The thought is enough to draw a wide smile from her and she steps closer to black-hair (and hooded-head).

“Hi,” her voice is cheery and before she can continue, black-hair snaps at her, clearly disliking her display of vibrant personality in the somber day.

“What are you looking at?” Tiffany doesn’t falter and she merely holds her hand towards black-hair, palm upward, the newly added words clear to their sights.

(It says, “I don’t need your hoodie nor an umbrella.”)

“I think you need an umbrella,” she adds, still with the cheery voice of her.

Black-hair clamps shut and flushes, lovely crimson adorning sharp cheekbones and Tiffany lets out a soft laugh. She reaches out to wrap her arm around black-hair’s slim shoulders and tugs her close under her umbrella.

“You’re hideous,” she whispers against silky raven tresses and black-hair laughs against her shoulder – it is a lie, after all.

(When they pull away, hooded-head is gone and Tiffany takes black-hair – Taeyeon – to her place and the rest is history.)