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Clary strolled down the aisle, looking at a variety of multi-colored folders and spiral notebooks. The polished linoleum reflected the LED ceiling lights and shelves of schools supplies in that eerie way that always made Target feel like it existed outside the realm of time and space, especially when there was no one else around and it was late in the evening. It had a strange calming effect on her, for she no longer felt the anxieties of the new school year or her 18th birthday. The only thing she had to worry about was how she was going to fit anything else into her bright red basket, which was filled to the brim with binders and paper and writing utensils. She grabbed a few plain notebooks—the cheapest ones she could find—and walked on.
Her phone began to vibrate just before she entered the checkout line, and a chippy tune hummed out from its tiny speakers. She answered it, knowing who called her without checking the name.
“Simon, what’s up?” she said, removing the items from her basket and placing them on the conveyor belt.
“Are you almost done? I’ve been waiting for like, an hour,” Simon said in his gentle yet high-strung voice.
“I’m at the checkout now.” Clary balanced her cell phone between her shoulder and her ear as she dug around in her purse for her wallet. The cashier, an older woman in the standard red polo and khakis, scanned the items at record speed.
“Okay. I’ll pull up to the front.” He hung up.
Clary checked the balance on the machine: $58.94. It was more than she wanted to spend, but whatever. She politely handed over her credit card and was out the door in five minutes with arms full of plastic bags. Simon’s van, which Clary had spray-painted orange with a new band name yesterday, was already at the curb, its door open and waiting.
“Did you get everything?” Simon asked, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Clary nodded and plopped down in the front seat, all her bags spilling onto her lap and the floor. As he pulled away from the store, the stereo system belted out some alternative-indie-rock song that Clary had never heard before, but she liked it.
“You guys should do a cover of that song,” she said once it was over.
“Yeah? I don’t know if we’d have enough time to rehearse it, though, before our next gig, which- Oh, shit, the flyers have our old name on them. Do you think it’s too late to ask the manager to…”
Simon blabbered on all the way home, Clary only interjecting a few words here and there. She tried her best to listen, but her mind kept wandering to all the things that could go horribly wrong tomorrow.
Because tomorrow was her 18th birthday. The day she would finally be able to communicate with her soulmate.
She’d heard the horror stories of eager people writing “Hello!” on their arms and getting nothing in return, or waking up to find themselves covered in ugly tattoos or blood or something. If anything that happened to your soulmate’s skin happened to your own, there was plenty of room for freaky shit to occur, especially if you had no idea who had this power over you.
“Clary!” Simon’s voice snapped her out of her daydream. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she replied, shaking it off. “Just nervous.”
“About tomorrow?” he smiled. “You’re going to meet the love of your life, what’s there to worry about?”
“I know, I know.”
They arrived at their apartment building, Simon parking his van in its designated spot. The outside air wrapped around Clary like thick wool blanket as she stepped out of the vehicle, filling her nose with the scent of car exhaust and old food. She had lost track of how many times she had painted this street at night. Even though the city lights hid the stars from view, they glowed in their own, much more colorful way. She loved to pencil in the minute details and idiosyncrasies of the buildings, each with their own personality that she tried her best to capture on paper. The scene in front of her was so familiar and yet, every time she looked at it, she saw something new. A new bird nest settled on the towering street lamp, a new sign on the Deli opposite her apartment building, a new crack in the pavement near the antique restoration shop.
How would her soulmate see this street? Would it be just another street to them, or would they be able to understand it the way Clary did?
Would Clary be able to understand their street?
It was the waiting that was killing her; the closer she got to tomorrow, the longer she had to wait for each second to tick by. Why couldn’t she just know now? That way, she wouldn’t be staying up all night watching youtube documentaries on soulmate system failures because she couldn’t sleep. Compared to other people, she didn’t have a long wait—she was born at 7:34 a.m.—and she was grateful for it, but that wouldn’t stop her from agonizing over how excruciatingly long the wait was.
She and Simon walked side by side into the apartment building, neither of them saying anything. The whole soulmate-anticipation thing was even making hanging out with Simon uncomfortable and tense. They ascended the stairs, their footsteps echoing against the concrete walls, and entered on the third story.
“Want me to spend the night? I can distract you,” Simon offered once they reached Clary’s front door.
“No, that’s okay,” Clary said, shifting her shopping bags around so she could get her key. “At least one of us should get a good night’s sleep.”
“Alright, but I will be over first thing tomorrow morning. I expect good news, Fray.” She rolled her eyes and lightly punched his shoulder.
“See you.”
“Bye.” And with that, Simon disappeared down the hall and into his own door.
Clary picked up her supplies and entered the apartment; the lights were off, which meant her mom must’ve already gone to sleep. She dropped her bags onto the mess that is her bedroom floor and fell back against her bed.
This was going to be a long night.
—
Clary’s eyes snapped open after a particularly restless hour of sleep, and she sat up, pushing the blankets off of herself. The room was almost pitch black, thanks to the curtains over the window. She felt around her bed for her cell phone, which had fallen out of her jeans pocket at some point during the tossing and turning of last night. Eventually, her hands closed around a little rectangle wedged between the wall and her mattress.
The blinding screen read 7:56 a.m.
Scrambling out of bed, Clary raced over to the light switch, tripping over all kinds of papers and dirty clothes. Excitement and dread pooled in her stomach all at once and threatened to come back up in the form of yesterday’s dinner. She rested her thumb against the switch, taking one breath in and releasing it before giving it a flick.
In her mind, the best case scenario would be absolutely nothing on her skin, and it would be up to her to make the first move. But looking down at her body, Clary realized that might never happen.
Four large pieces of glass jutted up out of her wrist—or, rather, her soulmate’s wrist. The flesh around it was swollen and covered in bruises and blood. More glass pushed against the shirt fabric around her stomach, and the mirror revealed dark red streams running down her chest from a deep slash on the side of her neck.
Clary’s throat tightened. While a scenario like this had played in her mind a dozen times, she was always able to dismiss it. Now, she looked like a nightmare come to life. And it wasn’t so much the fact that her soulmate might be dead; she didn’t even know the person. The grief that bubbled in her stomach came from the knowledge that she didn’t even get the chance to know them, that her love life would be over before it could begin. And although she knew that she didn’t need romance to be complete, there was still that inner desire to love and be loved in such a fashion that would take a long time to get rid of. Not to mention how other people would treat her, knowing she was yet another soulmate-less tragedy. She’s seen the way people treated her mom, who was one of those soulmate-less tragedies, and those pitying stares were the last thing Clary wanted.
A knock sounded at her door.
“Clary?” Her mom’s enthusiasm penetrated the thin walls. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah, come in,” Clary said, her head spinning as she backed into the center of her room. Her mom would know what to say.
The door creaked open, and a “Happy birthday” died on her mom’s lips. She pulled Clary into a hug, whispering that this didn’t mean anything, she shouldn’t give up hope, she’ll be okay. And, in the warmth of her mother’s arms, Clary could almost believe it.
—
They went into the kitchen together. Her mom offered to make some pancakes or eggs, but Clary declined, citing that her stomach needs to settle before she could eat anything. Instead, her mom put on a kettle of tea, and soon the whole room smelled sharply of peppermint.
For a while, they just sat together, each sipping from their own steaming mug of tea. When the cups were drained, her mom put them in the sink, then went to sit next to Clary again.
“We can cancel the party,” her mom said. “I’ll call off work. It can just be you and me.”
“I don’t really want anyone to see me like this,” Clary confessed, glancing down at the various wounds adorning her body.
“And that’s okay. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
While her mom left the room to grab her phone and send out a mass-text, Clary stared out the window. The sun shone. Birds chirped and fluttered by. People and cars rushed around in waves upon waves of motion. And Clary’s life seemed frozen in place.
A glint on the table caught her eye; she picked up a metallic ballpoint pen, blue with gold trimming. She clicked it once, twice, trying to decide if she should.
Fuck it. If she was going to be deprived of her soulmate, she deserved to know why. On the back of her hand, in her messy penmanship, Clary wrote, Are you okay?
Nerves gripped her heart like an electric shock as she waited for a response. The pen clanked forcefully against the table. Why did she do that? Now she was going to spend the rest of the day agonizing over whether or not somebody would see her message and reply with an explanation of how her soulmate tragically—
A dot of blue ink blossomed underneath her initial words. It swirled and looped around in elegant letters reading Oh my god! Chunks of glass began to disappear from her wounds, as well as the actual wounds themselves, until there was nothing left on her skin but a red smear.
Clary yelled for her mom, who barreled into the room and knelt next to her daughter, bringing with her a flurry of “What happened? Are you okay?” One look at Clary’s arm, and she was just as confused.
More words flowed from where blood used to be.
I’m so sorry! I couldn’t sleep last night so I did this Halloween makeup tutorial I saw and I had no idea this was coming
Happy birthday, by the way!
My name is Isabelle
Clary’s life lurched into motion, starting with her racing thoughts.
Her soulmate was okay.
It was all special fx makeup, which meant her soulmate was okay.
Clary let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding; relief overcame her entire body. She glanced at her mom, who had the widest smile on her face, and then she was smiling too.
Her soulmate’s name was Isabelle.
She scrambled for the pen.
Not gonna lie, I was really worried. You’re really good. My name’s Clary.
Thanks, it’s nice to finally meet you! Sort of…
Yeah, same here.
—
Clary’s leg bounced rapidly as she scoured the park scene without success.
They’ve spent the past two weeks texting and exchanging information. The first day of school came and went for both of them—apparently Isabelle was also a senior who lived in New York—and the other girl spent the day lamenting the fact that she couldn’t wear makeup anymore. In Clary’s opinion, she didn’t need it; one look at her “nomakeup” tag on Instagram revealed just how naturally stunning this girl was.
But it’s fun! she argued via text when Clary expressed this sentiment. Too bad I can’t do it now without making you look like a clown
You don’t have to worry about that. I don’t really leave the house much anyway lol
Introvert, huh?
For the most part, it was great. She got to know her soulmate better with each message: her sharp wit, her generosity, her interest in forensics. Clary’s eyes were almost entirely glued to her phone, something that landed her in detention on multiple occasions. Little did the teacher know she used a pen and her forearm to continue the conversation. And Isabelle seemed just as dedicated, usually sending the first message of the day at an ungodly hour in the morning.
So why had the same nervous doubt from two weeks ago start brewing in Clary once again?
It was a slow simmer at first, then gradually heated up until the nerves were threatening to boil over in this far-too-serene park. The people around her enjoyed the final days of summer with picnics and walks in the afternoon sun, unaware that this redhead sitting on a bench was about to get rejected by her soulmate.
Clary was all too aware of how ridiculous this theory was. If they got along over text, they would get along in real life. She chanted this mantra under her breath, checking her phone again to confirm that this was the right time and place.
“Clary?” said a voice from behind her. She whipped around to face a figure a few inches taller than her, with a soft mane of black hair and wide brown eyes.
Isabelle.
“Hey,” Clary squeaked, the wind rustling the tree leaves and concealing the tautness in her voice. In her Instagram pictures, Isabelle displayed a keen sense of fashion and an affinity for bold choices, but the girl in front of her was clad in ripped jeans, a monochrome tank top, and a thin scarf. Granted, the clothes were low-cut and very tight; however, this casual wear was unexpected and made Clary draw a complete blank on what to say next.
Luckily, Isabelle spoke up. “I got you a present. I know your birthday was a while ago, but still.” She held out a large gift bag with green paper sticking out of the top.
“You didn’t have to-”
“I wanted to. Besides, when you get me a present for my birthday”—she offered Clary a humorous wink—“I don’t want to look cheap.”
Clary chuckled and set the bag down on the bench. She unearthed a large rectangular frame, wider than her shoulder width, from underneath the paper, gasping when she saw the photo it contained.
A city street glowed in the light of the setting sun from behind the camera. An old church took center stage of the photograph, dozens of pointed spires adorning the stone walls. Circular stained-glass windows reflected the streetlamp light in brilliant colors and intricate patterns, and a tall wrought-iron fence lined the sidewalk around it. More modern buildings and skyscrapers filled the space behind the church, creating a strange but picturesque disconnect between the two architectural styles. It was the kind of scene that Clary wouldn’t be able to resist if she saw it in person, the kind that she would want to study for hours until she had every single detail memorized.
“Remember that painting you showed me of your street?” Isabelle asked, to which Clary nodded, still observing the photo. “This is mine. The street I grew up on.”
Clary looked up then and found Isabelle biting her bottom lip with a light flush on her cheeks, a sight that made her heart rate escalate.
“If you don’t like it, I can get you something else,” she said quickly, her hands loosening and tightening the scarf around her neck.
“No,” Clary grinned. “It’s perfect.”