Chapter Text
“When a baby comes you can smell two things: the smell of flesh, which smells like chicken soup, and the smell of lilies, the flower of another garden, the spiritual garden.”—Carlos Santana
The bundle of sunflowers lying limply on your desk no longer clung to each other or even to your skin if you touched them, their petals wilting and losing all shape and color. Their smell had gone days ago, though another had replaced it, one of browning stems and shriveling leaves, of discolored yellow melting into muddy brown.
Not that you could smell them either way, but you could see the decay and could imagine as well as you could what they must smell like. Your imagination couldn’t conjure up anything bad enough, though, apparently.
“Throw those away,” your mom said, surely exaggerating when she covered her mouth with her sleeve when she brought you a bowl of soup. “They stink.”
Everything does, you thought sarcastically, rolling your eyes. Except me.
The steaming chicken soup now on a tray in your lap must stink, too, or smell, since connotation mattered so much to people. The green stalks of celery and chunks of chicken and noodles trying not to drown as they rose to the top must all smell like something, but all you could feel was the steam as it crept up your chin and over your lips to spread all over your philtrum. The heat was comforting even more so than how the food tasted, some blanket of steam warming you more than any hug had lately.
“It will pass,” they said, but they had said that every year since they realized what was wrong with you. “She’ll grow out of it…She’s a late bloomer…Perhaps she’s just sick…Maybe a different doctor will tell us something different…Perhaps…Maybe…”
You weren’t ungrateful for your parents and the extent they had gone to try to figure out what was wrong with you, but sometimes things aren’t able to be diagnosed. We’re just born wrong sometimes.
You couldn’t smell. In another world, another time, it might not be such a big deal, but for you, it equated to never being able to find your soulmate.
That wasn’t so bad, you thought. Just like the soup wasn’t terrible. Just like the flowers wilting on your desk weren’t awful. The soup would never be delicious, and the flowers would never be pretty again, so why should you be allowed to be happy and whole? Better to just waste away and slowly drain yourself until you disappeared.
“You’re too dramatic,” your dad said over his newspaper, rolling his eyes, a trait you definitely inherited from him, the next morning at breakfast.
“But ah rewry can’t breve,” you tried to persuade him, tilting your head back so no snot made its way down your face and into his plate of oatmeal, though you figured the extra salt might add some actual flavor to his disgusting gruel. It might as well be a plate of tan brains.
Jeremy, why are you eating your snot? Why don’t you use a tissue?
Tastes good, Y/N. Don’t you eat yours?
No…No, I don’t. What does it taste like?
Salt. You know, salty things.
Yeah…I know.
“That’s quite enough of that,” your dad said, glancing over at you once when you sniffed pitifully. “It’s just a cold. It’s not like you need your nose to breathe.”
“Sure,” you sighed, “I’ll just be the weird mouth breather the rest of the week. Surely no one will make fun of me for that.”
“Why would they make fun of you? Everyone breathes out of their mouth,” your dad said, frowning now at you in pure oblivion. Bless him, you thought as you rolled your eyes and grabbed a piece of toast on the way out the door.
In all honesty, not many people made fun of you anymore. After four years of being the odd one out, you were mostly simply left alone. Still, the occasional person would bring you something at lunch or in class to ask your opinion on how it smelled.
I wouldn’t know, James, and you know it.
I know, I know, but just try. I mean, seriously, how can you not smell?
I don’t know? How can you still not understand the difference between “no” and “yes”? You know Katelyn told me what happened. Honestly, how are you going to explain that to your soul mate?
Shit, Y/N, I was just messing around.
I bet. Now get that tuna out of my face. I don’t need to smell to know it’s disgusting.
But the worst were the boys who got too close and actually went beyond simply trying to smell you to insist they were your soulmate. A few had almost even convinced you, especially Lee. He had never bothered you before, after all, and while he was popular enough and one of the best looking guys in class, thereby him simply approaching you making you suspicious, he was also extremely charismatic and seemed sincere enough to pull the wool over your eyes enough for you to write everyone else off after that as simply trying to get into your pants and mess with you. Lee hadn’t smelled like anything to you, though eventually you swore you knew what manipulation smelt like.
It smelt like throw-up and sweating foreheads and flushed cheeks and twisting insides and downcast eyes and burning shame and snickers and whispers behind hands pressed to friends’ ears and lies, lies, lies.
Lee, the liar.
Whatever, he had graduated already. Hadn’t even apologized. Never would. And you could make it four more months before you left, too. You were almost ready now. Soon, wherever you went, you could re-make yourself. No one would have to know you couldn’t smell. You knew what to say now. You knew what things smelt like, how to make things up now, how to describe without ever being precise enough to pinpoint an actual smell. No one would ever have to know.
And you didn’t need a soul mate.
You wouldn’t want to succumb anyone to your completely clean slate.
Hey Y/N, why can’t I smell you?
What do you mean?
I mean. I mean, you don’t smell like anything.
Oh. I mean, don’t we only smell to our soul mates?
What? No, silly. Everyone smells. You’ll just smell differently to your soul mate. It will be special. Can’t you—I mean, haven’t you noticed my smell?
No, Ava, you don’t smell, either. Just like me.
What? No, I’m definitely not like you. I have a smell. Like watered-down paint, my mom says. She thinks I’ll be a painter one day. Though she knows there’s actually no correlation between our smells and futures.
Oh.
Yeah, Y/N. You don’t smell. There’s totally something wrong with you.
Yeah. Yeah, I guess there is.
You know that for sure now.
But the thing about having something wrong with you is that everyone has at least one major flaw, whether that be physical or mental or spiritual or morally. Your dad, for instance, loved to embarrass you in public and had no discretion when introducing you as their child “who can’t smell.” You had thought when you were younger that he said it to assure you he loved you no matter what, but as you got older you weren’t so sure. It could have been a way to shut down conversation quickly, especially as you got older. Most people would simply nod and give you a sympathetic look, anyway.
Your mom, the Lord bless her, believed she could do no wrong and could not accept anything but perfection from everyone else. She made a good lawyer even if she had been an intense mom.
Ava, your best friend growing up, wanted nothing to do with you once she figured out you really couldn’t smell, as if losing one sense was a reason to lose a friendship that had lasted years. She also had a propensity for changing abruptly in front of you with no warning which had always seemed weird, but she grew up in locker rooms while you had grown up mostly in your room with your head in a book.
Again, everyone has something wrong with them.
You just felt, growing up in the same town with the same people and going to the same school for four years, that you were the only weird one, the only outcast, the only one who should really leave for college if not before.
But you knew, in the bigger, wider, scarier world out there, that there were plenty of other people just like you.
It’s the one reason Tuesday was your favorite day of your week, because Tuesdays meant Jimin, and, if you were lucky, Tae.
Jimin smelled like oranges. At least, according to Tae. His face looked a bit like one, too, though you would never dare to voice that thought out loud to him. Tae might laugh at it, but Jimin would surely frown and huff and puff and pout and whine and insult you back.
In a moment of wild abandonment and complete despair or absolute hope, you had sent him a message last semester on Twitter asking to speak to him about Taehyung’s shelter. You had assumed, at the time, that the two were dating, as Jimin’s pictures were either selfies, of his dance crew, or of him and Tae. He often posted about Tae’s shelter, too, and you had spent months reading its website and stalking its Instagram and Twitter and Facebook and everything you could consume. Tae, to your dismay, did not seem to have any social media, and while you could have simply called the shelter or e-mailed their office, you didn’t want to. You wanted to talk to Tae. Only he would be able to understand what you were going through, and the idea of trying to explain to anyone else, to another person, to tell someone else the most private and yet public thing about you that everyone in your town already knew, was too overwhelming.
So you tried to go through Jimin, but the man had taken you under his wing before even introducing you to Tae, who he was, in fact, not dating.
We’re soul mates, sure, but we’re what I call platonic soul mates.
How, um, does that work?
Excellently! Thank you for asking!
I just mean—
We tried for a bit, to be together, you know? But we decided we just work better as friends and roommates. It’s not exactly unheard of, but it’s odd enough for people to consider taboo. The reaction our friends and family had when we told them we weren’t going to get married or stay together, oh boy. Well, let’s just say I don’t have a lot of friends anymore. And it’s what led Tae to open up the shelter. He figured other people might be in the same boat.
Did he—did they—I mean, are there lots of people staying there?
Oh, yes. It’s almost always full. Though, I suppose the sad part that keeps us up at night is how many kids are out there who are too afraid to come in. Who are just trying to go through life unable to accept that there is nothing wrong with them.
You think there are lot of them?
Oh, yes. More than we can imagine, I bet.
What keeps them from coming to the shelter? Besides fear. Or, what are they afraid of?
I don’t know, Y/N. You tell me. What are you afraid of? Why wouldn’t you want to come to a place where you know you’ll be accepted for who you are and what you want to do?
I suppose I’m just waiting for my family to do that. Isn’t that what family is for?
Your sudden obsession with oranges four months ago did not go unnoticed by your parents, but they couldn’t really complain about you getting more Vitamin C, could they?
And you couldn’t complain about how your hands must always smell of citrus now, now could you?
In the Bible, every time an angel appeared to someone, they had to say “Fear not” due to their appearance. While demons appeared lovely but were in fact evil and manipulative, poisonous and purely wicked, a little like Lee had been, angels were so majestic and terrifying, powerful and too holy and good that a normal human would want to flee from them so they couldn’t be punished or simply smote down by the pure radiance of the angel’s light. The repetition of “Fear not” was to ensure them the angel was there to help and could be trusted.
Sometimes you wished Jimin would say that every time his face came up on your screen, because you swore he must be an angel. Or a demon. But no, you knew his ethereal appearance was real and good, so in the end you simply couldn’t believe why he cared to talk to you. This Tuesday was no exception, especially since his hair was a completely new color when his image appeared.
“You changed your hair,” you said pointlessly, even throwing in the effort to lift a finger toward the screen. Jimin laughed easily, often using his whole body to put force behind it to show his enthusiasm, and today was no exception. He couldn’t go far, though, as a cloud of pillows was behind his head, an image that only added to the idea of his celestial origins. As if to show off his new look to you, he brushed his fingers through his now silver hair, turning his head back and forth to show off his good angles, which was every angle, honestly.
“Does it look good? Had to dye it for a show. Tae said it makes me look old,” Jimin said, pouting a little. You shook your head enthusiastically.
“No, no, it looks good. Makes you look older, but not in a bad way. Like in an authoritative way? Like you could get people to do anything you wanted.”
“I don’t need silver hair for that,” Jimin winked, and you laughed, sure his confidence wasn’t ill-founded. “But oh my god,” he said, laughing again so much his eyes squinted shut and he shook his head, his hair flying all over his forehead, “that’s exactly what Taemin said! Though I think the word daddy was in there somewhere.”
“Oh my god,” you echoed, laughing right along with him. When you calmed down, you averted your gaze to the empty spot on your desk. The sunflowers, if their wilted state could even be called that anymore, had been dumped in some trashcan. Your mom must have disposed of them while you were at school. Someone should dispose of you, but the only trashcan big enough for humans was a graveyard.
“You sound a bit sick, by the way,” Jimin said, ever observant, his face fully serious now.
“Just a cold,” you shrugged, sniffling for good measure but sending him a smile nonetheless.
“Did you eat today?” Jimin’s protective nature was known to jump out if you gave the slightest indication that you were sad or feeling bad, and it was simply one reason why him and Tae were such obvious soulmates, the two momma bears whose quest in life was to take in every orphan and abandoned and struggling child under their giant mother hen wings.
“Yes, dad,” you said, throwing in a wink for good measure. Jimin only rolled his eyes, a reaction you always loved seeing as it made you feel closer to him. Picking up each others’ habits, inside jokes, finishing each others’ sentences; all of the cliché things you wished you could share with someone, soulmate or not, always seemed out of your reach, and while Jimin was eight years older than you, he really felt like your only friend at times. So you were glad he could basically read you like a book at this point and knew when to press you or leave you alone. His infinite patience when it was necessary as well as his inability to put up with bullshit when you were purely being an immature brat who wanted to wallow in her own swamp of self-misery always seemed to be the perfect mixture of love and tough love that you longed for. If you were honest with yourself, you had thought more than once how nice it would be to have him as your soulmate. But he wasn’t meant for you, so the idea was a mere pipe dream.
“Did you tell them yet?” Jimin’s voice interrupted your thoughts, his patient and kind one on. He would make a good therapist, you thought, not for the first time. You merely shook your head and were thankful he didn’t press it.
“I will. I’ll tell them today. Or tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Jimin said, his affirmation full of understanding. You had been saying it for weeks, months even, so you both knew you didn’t really mean it. Still, it was February, and you really did have to decide by the end of the month.
“I will,” you said again, staring at the empty space on your desk. “I’ll tell them.”
Jimin only hummed, even if you really wanted to hear him say those words any angel would.
Fear not. Fear not.
If only your cold could turn into the flu, into something worse, into anything that would better resemble how you felt inside by the time Valentine’s Day rolled around. In their infinite wisdom, your parents had kept you at home between the ages of seven and fourteen. The constant doctor visits when you were a child, the traveling to see specialists, the insight to realize how difficult being around other children was for you at a young age were enough reasons to homeschool you. You’d like to think, in a selfish way, your parents never had another child because they loved you so much they didn’t want you to have to deal with a younger sibling. You simultaneously thought sometimes that they should have had another kid to try to get one who wouldn’t be such a big disappointment, but you never complained as a kid at the almost constant attention. Still, being homeschooled only became another reason for people to view you as odd, especially when you told people your dad taught you. He could care less about what people thought, it seemed, and your mother was always first to step in about the inadequacies of the public school system and how you had the legal right to homeschool until you were fourteen, so most people didn’t verbalize their judgement in public.
But most judging goes on in our heads and behind closed doors and is whispered among friends and passed like spores flying through the air from one host to another.
But just like how homeschooling wasn’t meant for everyone, you weren’t meant for anyone. Something you and your parents couldn’t ignore for any longer by the time you were sixteen.
By eighteen, even the term “late bloomer” couldn’t be applied to you anymore. You didn’t have a scent, and you never would.
Not having a soulmate wasn’t completely unheard of. Even if you didn’t really realize that until after meeting Jimin and Taehyung, you had heard stories each year in high school of so-and-so and this person’s aunt and that kid’s friend of a friend who didn’t have a soulmate. Whether they were never intended to have one or theirs had died tragically young before they had the ability to meet or whatever the case, not having a soulmate wasn’t unheard of. There were also plenty of people who had a soulmate but never found them. With billions of people in the world, was that really so strange? No, some people didn’t have a soulmate or never met them. But everyone had a smell.
Everyone but you.
And it wasn’t like there were many people in your one high school who were soulmates. The chance of high school sweethearts was a rare occasion. Your school did have one such lucky pair, in your year no less, and they were a disgustingly sweet couple, but most people macking in the hallway or at the lunch tables were doing it for fun or to gain experience. There were plenty of people who wanted to be “Ready for their soulmate,” whatever that meant. Waiting for the person who was literally made just for you seemed more logical, but you suppose the fear of being inadequate existed even among those guaranteed and destined to one day meet another person created just for them. Plus, human beings were just impatient when it came to pleasure and gratification.
That was the only explanation you could come up with for why everyone in high school made such a huge deal out of Valentine’s Day. It all seemed pointless to you. Those who chose to date were only setting themselves up for heartbreak and failure, weren’t they? Wouldn’t the inevitable breakup when one of them found their prospective soulmate devastate them both? Or at least leave one floundering and lost until their own came along? Why kids chose to hurt themselves had always been lost on you, but perhaps that was just your pessimism thinking.
You weren’t completely apathetic, though, and Valentine’s Day only served to remind you of that painful fact. Even without a scent, even after years of knowing you were meant for no one, the day still left you feeling numb. You stumbled through the day like a giant Macy’s day parade float, bumping into buildings and people and trying to maneuver your way through the day without doing any damage to yourself or any property.
The empty house when you somehow made it home at the end of the day always hurt, but the hole caused by your parents’ absence was filled with the calming reassurance that they really did love each other. It never failed to make you cry, sure, but you knew you were happy for them underneath the layers of despair you felt. They didn’t have to be cute and take each other out for dates still. They didn’t need to make kissy faces at each other when they thought you weren’t looking. They didn’t have to continue to try to get as close to each other as they could. They were soulmates, so it’s not like anything could ever tear them apart. They had each other and always would. But you had no one and never would.
“You’re being dramatic,” your dad would always say the next day, your head always fuzzy and heavy like how you imagined a hangover would feel, but at least he would always pull you in for a giant hug. They were a good example, a maybe too perfect of an example of how soulmates should work, really, and you were glad to have grown up in such a loving household, really, you really were. But part of you was still glad it was the last Valentine’s Day you would have to spend around them. You almost told them that morning, but your dad was still hugging you, his arms keeping you from getting away, and your mom’s hand that pressed onto your head before she left for work was too reassuring. No, you waited until the last possible moment, even though it was your mom’s question that finally led to your admission.
“Did you send your acceptance letter yet?” she said over dinner one night a week later. She had a habit of asking questions when they were really statements or commands. A way out of getting in trouble.
Did you break the dish?
Did you do your homework?
Did you want to tell me something?
Having a lawyer for a parent was unfair sometimes, really.
“I don’t know if I’m going to go,” you said and waited for the bomb to take its affect. The silence that fell over the table lasted longer than you expected, honestly, and you were shaking more than you thought you would be.
“What?” your mom said, another non-question question.
“I don’t think I’m going to go.”
“And why, sweetie,” mom said, the name degrading as much as it was loving, “would you think that?” You shrugged and looked away. There was a new bouquet in a clear vase on the kitchen counter. Their white petals wouldn’t stay pure for long.
“I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t see why going to college and paying a bunch of money is smart.”
“I see,” your mom said, and you heard her setting her utensils down. You put your own down, trying to brace yourself for the lecture. “I guess doing any planning for the future is also dumb, too, then? I guess going and doing basics and giving yourself time to think about what you want to do would be a waste of time, too? And I also assume that learning, even if the exact knowledge doesn’t directly correlate to one’s career path, is useless, too?”
“No,” you mumbled, knowing the answer to all of her hypothetical questions. “I just don’t see the point if I’m not working toward some goal, you know?”
“I thought you wanted to be an architect,” your dad chimed in. Despite what felt like an interrogation where your sentence was already decided—guilty, guilty, guilty—you couldn’t help but smile at the memory. You had definitely gone through a phase as a kid where you loved drawing buildings and designing floorplans, but that was ages ago when age didn’t seem capable of holding you back from any dream.
“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “And I don’t want to waste your money.”
“Y/N,” your mother said kindly, “I think it would be extremely foolish to not go. You are technically an adult so can make the decision yourself, but we think it would be best if you went.” A trap, for sure, a classic one you recognized immediately.
“I just,” you tried again, but your dad opted to refill your plate at the moment, as if eating seconds would solve the world’s problems.
“You can always go as undeclared. Or change your major later. Or even drop out if you want.” Your mom glanced sharply at your dad at that, clearly not on board with this idea, but she smoothed her countenance immediately like a true professional.
“Where is this coming from?” she said, as if you hadn’t felt lost for years. You shrugged again, picking at the green beans on your plate.
“I just want to go to New York after graduation.”
“So you do want to go to Columbia?”
“I want to go to New York.”
“Columbia is in New York.”
“I know.”
“So you want to go to Columbia.”
“I want to go to New York, Columbia is in New York, therefore I want to go to Columbia is an invalid syllogism, isn’t it?” you said, sighing a little, but you knew you were right, and your parents did, too. Your mom sighed, too, a sure sign of her annoyance, so you ate a few green beans to stall.
“Why do you want to go to New York, then?” your dad finally asked.
“I want to meet Jimin and Tae.”
“Jimin and Tae,” your mom repeated. “The boys you met online?”
“They’re grown men with jobs,” you said, tired of having to explain this to them. “Jimin is a professional ballerina and Tae runs a shelter for at-risk youths.”
“So you want to not go to college and go meet some random guys you met online and hope that, of all the perverts in New York, they’re not going to kidnap or rape you?”
“God mom,” you sighed, throwing your fork down. “Not everyone is out to get me. No one is, in fact. No one cares about me.”
“Well, who’s using invalid syllogisms now,” she sighed back, crossing her arms. You dropped your head. You didn’t really mean no one cared. You knew they did, in their own way.
“You said I’m an adult now. I’ve been eighteen for months. Can’t I make this decision?”
“Of course you can make it,” your mom said, but letting you win an argument never really felt like besting her. “You can make any dumb, foolish decision you want. If you want to go meet some strangers in New York, you’re more than welcome to do that.”
“Honey,” your dad said, touching your mom’s elbow.
“Sweetie,” your mom said, pinching the bridge of her nose and staring across the table at you. “If you don’t want to go to college and want to be on your own, we can support you by not supporting you. I think it’s a dumb decision, but you can do that if you want.”
“I don’t want you to not support me,” you said, exasperated. “All I want is for you to support me. Support my decision to go to New York once I graduate.”
“If you go to Columbia, you can leave the day after for all I care,” your mom said. You glanced at your dad, but he couldn’t seem to decide who to look at. In the end, he chose his soulmate, and you weren’t surprised. Leaning back in your chair, you sighed again. Conflict management, you thought. Compromise, compromise, you repeated to yourself, trying to figure out how to appease her and still get your way.
“If I go to Columbia, you’ll pay for it?”
“We already agreed to do that,” your mom said as if you had forgotten. “You were offered a scholarship, too. You just need to send your acceptance letter. Sooner rather than later.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” you said, sighing one more time to show much you hated the idea.
“And who knows,” your dad said, a small smile on his face, ever the optimist, “maybe you’ll find your soulmate. It’s a big city.”
“Yeah, yeah, maybe,” you muttered, though he was wrong. It didn’t matter how many people lived in New York, your soulmate didn’t. Your soulmate didn’t exist.
The letter went in the mail the next day. You had to wait three months to follow it, though. At least the time passed faster than you expected, as your parents made sure your days were filled. Your dad started insisted he suddenly needed help at the nursery, and while spring was always a busy time, you figured he just wanted you around more than he actually needed help moving pots and transporting bags of dirt. Still, you didn’t really mind the work. It kept you busy, and there was something about touching the soft petals that bloomed under your meticulous care that gave you hope you could give life. You appreciated your dad letting you take buds that fell off or broken stems at the end of the day or week for you to make into something else; a flower crown, a bouquet for your mom, a single flower to press, a garland to hang over your bed. If you had friends, you would make them something, but instead your house in the spring was filled with flowers. One time your dad had said something about a variety you had put together—“Their smell doesn’t go together”—and you couldn’t help but huff in return. Did the smell really matter? Couldn’t their colors be enjoyed? Their shape? The way they wrapped around each other or used their thorns to keep grabbing hands away? He didn’t say anything about any combination of flowers you came up with again, but you sometimes wondered what the point of flowers were. Were they to be smelled? If so, they were meaningless to someone like you. And the metaphor wasn’t lost on you. Without a smell, was your existence also meaningless?
Flowers weren’t just for smelling, so you would make people understand no one thing has one measly purpose.
People didn’t, either. They couldn’t. The idea of one person in the world being meant for only one other person had never made logical sense to you. And you knew of plenty of people who were happily married to people who weren’t their soulmates; to lost souls finding each other. And others who chose not to be with their own soulmates. Those were fewer and farer between, but Jimin and Tae stood out in your mind. They were successful and happy but weren’t “together.” Like a bundle of hydrangeas, they worked independently while staying together. They both had a purpose other than just being together. Maybe, just maybe, you thought as you trimmed a bunch of leaves on the pots of jasmine, I can find some purpose without someone else providing me one.
“You know we almost named you jasmine?” your dad mused, suddenly standing over you. He nodded at the plant you were pruning, and you paused to examine the flower, wrinkling your nose a little.
“Really? I’m glad you didn’t. Why would you do that?” you said, and your dad laughed, stooping down next to you to touch one of the plant’s leaves.
“Your grandmother brought them for your mom, so they were in her room when you were born. I just looked around the room and thought, well, it’s jasmine or vase.”
“Seriously?” you deadpanned, knowing he was being ridiculous.
“Your grandma really did send them! We used to have a huge plant all along our fence growing up, so she wanted them there for the room. They symbolize love, and there was no doubt we loved you. We still do, you know. It would have been a good name for you.” You couldn’t help but scoff at the irony, glad that you were notnamed Jasmine.
“Thanks for not naming me that,” you snorted, resuming your trimming.
“They smell divine, too,” your dad, his voice quieter, as if he, surprise, surprise, knew the topic could upset you. “The whole room was full of their smell. So much we thought, we thought at first that it came from you. It, the smell seemed to linger on you for long enough that we didn’t realize. We didn’t—”
“It’s okay, dad,” you said, wishing he would be quiet. “It’s not your fault. You tried everything, too. I appreciate it.”
“But it is, in a way, you know,” your dad said, sighing. “We made you. Something went wrong, and that was our fault.”
“No,” you said slowly, lowering your shears to put your hand on your dad’s knee. “Some things just go wrong. It had to happen to someone, so it might as well be me.”
“Y/N,” your dad said, his voice choking slightly.
“Really, dad, it’s fine. It’ll be fine. It has been, right? Aren’t I okay?”
“You—you’re more than okay,” your dad said, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. Sure, you thought, not trusting yourself to say anything else out loud.
You waited until he left to help a customer to snip the entire stem off on of the jasmine plants. The flower tumbled to the ground, and you stabbed it once with your scissors, its delicate petals bruising and melting immediately under the sharp edge. Stupid, fragile flower. You were no jasmine.
You had expected more tears when it finally happened. But, you suppose, most things seem sadder in retrospect. The shock or denial that kicks in keeps us from emoting appropriately for what the situation requires.
We have determined that your daughter can not smell. She seems to be have been born with congenital anosmia. It is possible, as she gets older, that her sense of smell could come back. Our ability to smell, just like our ability to see and even taste, can develop. Keep introducing new smells to her. It is not life-threatening, but if she starts to lose any other senses, bring her in immediately. She could have a nervous system issue or even a chemical imbalance in her brain.
But, but her smell.
Yes?
She, she doesn’t have one. Never has.
The issue isn’t related. It’s rare, but I’ve heard of cases when someone is born without a smell. It can develop later, however. I’ve never heard of a case when someone develop their own smell once they came of age. If she hasn’t by sixteen, bring her in again.
But—
Again, it’s not life-threatening. An inconvenience at best. Rare, certainly.
But doctor, with no smell, she—
She won’t have a soulmate. Yes. But, again, even that isn’t life-threatening.
Moving out seemed to have the same affect. No one cried. No one tried one last time to convince you to stay. No one hugged you extra-long. No one came to see you off or made you banners or gave you a last-minute gift. School ended, graduation happened, and then you moved. Anti-climatic like most other things in your life, you figured.
The pain you felt in your chest wasn’t life-threatening, though, and it was only temporary. Sometimes you had to cut away what was holding you back in order to thrive. So you left your parents and left your home and left your town and moved to New York.
No one cried, and no one died, and life went on. It would be filled with color and purpose, and you were determined to find it.