Chapter Text
Seonghwa lived in silence.
While others eagerly waited for the first words of their soulmate to appear on their skin, he had long since let go of that hope. After all, what use was a soulmate’s first words to someone who had never heard anything at all?
Everyone knew the rules of this existence: on your eighteenth birthday, the first phrase your soulmate would say to you after that day appeared on your right forearm like a tattoo etched by fate itself. Some marks were mundane—"Excuse me, you dropped this" or "Can I sit here?"—while others were strange enough to become conversation starters themselves. Parents raised children on bedtime stories of remarkable meetings, of people who followed the breadcrumb trail of their markings to find that one person who would complete them.
But for Seonghwa, born into permanent silence, these stories had always felt like fairy tales meant for others. His parents had tried to include him in this cultural milestone, their hands moving in careful signs as they explained what would happen when he turned eighteen. His mother had rolled up her sleeve to show him her own mark, a simple "Could you tell me the time?" that had led her to his father at a train station twenty-seven years ago.
"You'll have one too," she had signed, her fingers graceful against the air. But even then, at ten years old, Seonghwa had understood the lie of her certainty.
Through middle school and high school, he'd watched older peers and cousins roll up their sleeves after turning eighteen, showing off the words that would lead them to love.
He'd seen classmates sketch imaginary phrases on their arms with markers, eagerly anticipating the day they'd receive the real thing. He'd nodded and smiled when appropriate, his hands offering congratulations while his heart settled deeper into a practiced indifference.What use was a mark that promised words he would never hear?
The universe hadn't been kind enough to give him hearing, why would it bother giving him a soulmate?
By seventeen, Seonghwa had constructed a life around this absence. He excelled in his studies, pouring himself into books where the words were visible, traceable with his fingertips. He had friends—primarily Yunho, whose patient hands had learned to sign almost as soon as they'd met in elementary school. He had goals that didn't involve romantic entanglements or cosmic interventions. If others pitied him for missing out on this fundamental human experience, he never let on that he noticed.
The night before his eighteenth birthday, Seonghwa sat at his desk, he glanced at his bare right forearm, pale and unmarked in the soft desk light. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine waking up to find something written there—any phrase, any promise. Then he turned off the light, and went to bed, pushing the thought away like an unwanted visitor.
Morning came with the silent insistence of sunlight through his curtains. Seonghwa woke to his alarm, the gentle buzz against his wrist. He stretched, purposefully not looking at his arm, and went through his morning routine.
Shower, clothes, breakfast.The usual.
His parents greeted him with wide smiles and birthday wishes in sign, his mother's hands extra expressive as she told him how grown-up he looked.
Eighteen.
An adult now.
It wasn't until he was brushing his teeth that he noticed it. A dark smudge on his right forearm that hadn't been there the night before. Toothbrush still in his mouth, he stared, certain it was just a shadow or a stain from something he'd leaned against. But as he turned his arm in the bathroom light, the smudge revealed itself as two distinct words, etched in a flowing script that seemed to shimmer under his gaze.
"Hi angel!"
Seonghwa dropped his toothbrush. It clattered into the sink, flecking the white porcelain with toothpaste, but he barely noticed. His fingers traced the words, expecting them to smear or fade like a practical joke, but they remained steadfast.
Real.
He mouthed the words, shaping them with lips that had never been taught to speak properly.
Hi angel.
Simple words.
Ordinary words.
Impossible words.
His heart pounded against his ribs as confusion gave way to disbelief. How could he have a soulmate phrase? Who would say these words to him, and how would he know they had been said? The mark was a cruel joke from a universe that had already denied him so much.
Seonghwa sank to the edge of the bathtub, his legs suddenly unsteady. The mark seemed to pulse against his skin, warm and alive and utterly bewildering.
He tried to make sense of it—perhaps it wasn't a spoken phrase but something signed to him? But no, the marks were always the first words spoken. Everyone knew this. It was the unchangeable law of soulmates.
He looked up at his reflection in the mirror, at the face that had always been his—ordinary in most respects except for the hearing aids he'd long ago stopped wearing, finding them more frustrating than helpful. His expression was caught between wonder and wariness, like someone offered a gift too beautiful to be trusted.
The reality of the mark settled over him like a new weight. He had been given a promise he had no way to claim. Somewhere in the world was a person who would say "Hi angel!" to him, and he would never hear it. The phrase might as well be written in an alphabet he couldn't read, for all the good it would do him.
And yet...
Seonghwa looked down at the mark again. Despite everything, despite the logical part of his mind that understood the futility of it, a small, stubborn spark of hope had ignited within him. The universe, in its vast and incomprehensible way, had deemed him worthy of a soulmate. Whatever that meant, whatever impossible path that set him on, it was more than he had allowed himself to want for years.
He traced the words once more, his fingertips light against the delicate script. Seonghwa didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of it all.
Instead, he picked up his toothbrush, rinsed it off, and finished brushing his teeth. Then he rolled down his sleeve, covering the mark that couldn't possibly be real yet undeniably was, and went to tell his parents what had happened.
His parents stared at the mark with wide eyes, their hands momentarily still in the air as if language itself had failed them. Seonghwa stood in the kitchen, sleeve rolled up to expose the two words that had appeared overnight. His mother recovered first, her fingers moving rapidly as she signed, "It's beautiful," though her expression remained caught between joy and concern.
His father leaned closer, examining the elegant script that curved along Seonghwa's pale skin. "How?" his father signed, the single question hanging between them.
Seonghwa shook his head, his own hands rising to respond. "I don't know. I thought—" He paused, unsure how to convey the years of resignation, the careful way he had trained himself not to want this very thing. "I thought this wouldn't happen to me."
His mother's eyes welled with tears. She touched the mark gently, then signed, "The universe has plans we don't understand." It was the kind of thing she always said, her faith in a kind universe unshaken despite everything their family had been through.
"But how will I know?" Seonghwa's hands moved more urgently now. "If someone speaks these words to me, how will I ever know it's them?"
Neither parent had an explanation. His father booked an appointment with Dr. Choi—the specialist who’d monitored Seonghwa’s deafness since childhood—hoping for a medical precedent.
Seonghwa slipped into his room, snapped a photo of the unfamiliar mark on his forearm, and texted his best friend: “This happened. Not a joke.” Yunho’s reply was almost instant: “Coming over now!!!”
Thirty minutes later, Yunho crouched beside Seonghwa’s bed, studying the mark like an artifact. “It looks exactly like everyone else’s,” he said.
“I’m not like everyone else,” Seonghwa signed. “The mark means you hear your soulmate’s first words after your birthday. I can’t hear.”
“Or maybe it means something else,” Yunho countered.
Seonghwa shook his head. “Or it’s meaningless.” Still, the mark felt like a key to something unknown.
“Do you want me there tomorrow?” Yunho asked. Seonghwa nodded gratefully.
The next afternoon, they sat under harsh fluorescents in Dr. Choi’s waiting room. When called, Seonghwa rolled up his sleeve before the doctor. Dr. Choi’s surprise was evident as she traced the elegant script. “It’s identical to a standard soulmate mark,” she signed. “I’ve never seen one in a deaf patient.”
“How is it possible?” Seonghwa signed. “For someone who can’t hear?”
Dr. Choi tapped her tablet. “We don’t really know how soulmate marks form. Genetic theories, electromagnetic fields, even quantum entanglement have been suggested. We can run blood tests, skin analyses, refer you to a specialist—but I doubt science will explain it.”
Seonghwa sank back. He’d hoped for a medical loophole.
Dr. Choi gave him a gentle look. “Lack of explanation doesn’t make it unreal. Your mark appeared for a reason.”
They completed the tests—blood drawn, photos taken—and left with more questions than answers.
Outside, Yunho nudged him. “Well?”
“Unhelpful,” Seonghwa signed.
Yunho just smiled
Seonghwa gave him a skeptical look but couldn't entirely suppress the small flutter of possibility that had taken root beneath his ribs. The mark remained a mystery, unexplained by medicine or logic. Yet it was undeniably there, two words promising something he had never allowed himself to want.
The blood tests came back normal. The skin analysis revealed nothing unusual. The soulmate mark specialist examined Seonghwa's arm for forty-five minutes before admitting she had no explanation. "It's unprecedented," she told him through the interpreter, her fascination evident despite her professional demeanor. Seonghwa had nodded, unsurprised.
Weeks stretched into months, and the novelty of his mark gradually faded into the background of his life. Occasionally, late at night when sleep evaded him, Seonghwa would trace the words with his fingertips, wondering about the person who would someday speak them to him.
"Hi angel!"
It sounded like something from a movie, too charming and direct to be real. Like this person had known him for years and was simply greeting him.
He spent hours combing through online forums where people discussed unusual soulmate experiences. There were stories of marks appearing in different languages, marks changing after near-death experiences, even rare accounts of people with no marks at all. But nowhere could he find a case like his: a deaf person with words they could never hear.
His nineteenth birthday came and went. The mark remained, neither fading nor changing, a permanent reminder of a promise the universe had made without explaining how it would be kept.
"Maybe you'll get cochlear implants someday," his mother suggested one evening, her hopeful signs floating between them at the dinner table. Seonghwa shook his head. He'd considered and rejected that option years ago; his deafness was integral to his identity, not a condition to be fixed.
"Or maybe," his father signed with a wry smile, "your soulmate is some eccentric billionaire inventor who'll create technology just for you."
Seonghwa had considered similar scenarios during his late-night spirals of imagination, but such fantasies could never be real.
≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾
Seonghwa's frustration peaked one rainy afternoon almost two years after his mark had appeared. He sat in a café with Yunho, watching the drops race down the window while his friend described his latest audition.
"They want me back for a second reading next week," Yunho signed, his expression bright with excitement. "It's a supporting role, but it's a major production."
Seonghwa smiled, genuinely happy for his friend's success. "You'll get it," he signed back. "You always do."
Yunho shook his head modestly, then paused, his attention caught by something beyond Seonghwa's shoulder. Following his gaze, Seonghwa turned to see a young couple at a nearby table, clearly in the first flush of a new relationship. The woman was showing the man her mark, their fingers intertwined on the tabletop.
"Did you ever try that dating app?" Yunho asked when Seonghwa turned back. "The one for people with unusual marks?"
Seonghwa rolled his eyes. "It's pointless. How would I know if someone spoke those words to me?"
"You could tell them about your situation. I don't know… them to write it down or something. It might work."
"It doesn't. And that defeats the whole purpose," Seonghwa sighed and signed, his movements sharp with frustration. "The mark is supposed to be spontaneous. The first words they say to you. If I tell someone to say it to me, it's not fate anymore, it's a setup."
Yunho sighed, his hands falling still on the table. After a moment, he signed, "I just want you to be happy."
"I am happy," Seonghwa replied, though the signs felt hollow as they formed beneath his fingers. "I've just accepted that some parts of life aren't meant for me."
But had he really accepted it? The mark remained a persistent question mark, an itch he couldn't scratch. Some mornings he woke convinced it was all an elaborate prank; other days, he found himself watching strangers' lips with desperate attention, hoping to catch those two words forming in the air he couldn't hear.
By his twenty-first birthday, Seonghwa had developed a complicated relationship with his mark. He'd stopped actively searching for explanations but hadn't entirely abandoned hope. He'd embraced the mystery of it, wearing it like a secret talisman. If pressed, he would show it and offer a practiced smile that suggested bemusement rather than pain.
"It's the universe's idea of a joke," he told a new friend who asked about it at university. "And i've decided to laugh along."
In private moments, though, he still wondered. There were nights when he lay awake, the mark seeming to pulse against his skin in time with his heartbeat, reminding him of possibilities he couldn't name.
In those quiet hours, he sometimes allowed himself to imagine a meeting so perfect, so transcendent, that the barrier of his deafness would somehow dissolve. Not through medicine or miracle, but through the pure magic of connection and love.
But by morning, those fantasies always faded. Seonghwa learned to live in the world as it was—a place of practical limitations and unexplained phenomena. He focused on his studies, on nurturing his friendships, on developing his passion for writing. The mark became just another part of him, like a small scar someone would get above his left eyebrow from a childhood fall.
If there was a soulmate out there who would someday say those words to him, Seonghwa decided, they would have to find him. He had worlds to create, stories to tell, a life to live. He couldn't wait for words he would never hear.
And yet, sometimes, in the quiet space between sleep and waking, he found himself hoping that the universe, having played its inexplicable joke, might someday deliver the punchline.
≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾
The bookstore was packed, a sea of faces turned expectantly toward the small podium where Seonghwa sat with a practiced smile. At twenty-seven, he had three bestselling novels to his name and a reputation for lyrical prose that belied his inability to hear the music of spoken language. An interpreter stood discreetly to his right, hands moving fluidly as audience members asked questions that Seonghwa answered with careful consideration, his own signs translated aloud for the crowd.
"Where do you get your ideas?" asked a young woman in the front row, her eyes bright with admiration.
Seonghwa's fingers shaped his response, a question he'd answered dozens of times. "From the world of silence. I see things others might miss because they're distracted by sound." It was the kind of mystique-building answer his publisher loved, though Seonghwa found it slightly disingenuous. The truth was simpler: he wrote because words on a page were a language everyone shared, a bridge between his silent world and the noisy one beyond.
Success had blindsided him. His private stories caught a literary agent's eye during his final university year. His debut novel about isolation resonated with lonely readers and critics alike, who praised his "unique perspective" and "haunting imagery."
Three books later, he had carved out a comfortable life for himself. He owned a small apartment in Seoul overlooking the river, traveled when the mood struck, and maintained a small circle of close friends—Yunho still chief among them, despite his friend's increasingly busy acting career. By most measures, Seonghwa had exceeded the modest expectations he'd set for himself.
Yet success had brought its own complications. Public appearances like this one required careful preparation. The long-sleeved shirts even in summer heat. The deflection of personal questions but the constant awareness of his right forearm, where two words continued to rest against his skin.
"Will you be doing a tour for your next book?" another reader asked.
Seonghwa hesitated, his hands stilling momentarily before responding. "Limited appearances," he signed. "I prefer the quiet of writing to the chaos of promotion." The audience laughed appreciatively, taking his reluctance as the charming eccentricity of a creative mind rather than the strategic avoidance it partly was.
Book tours meant multiple handlers, overnight stays in hotels, the constant risk of someone noticing his mark during an unguarded moment and asking inappropriate questions . Literary festivals were even worse—cocktail receptions where sleeves got pushed up, swimming pools where authors were expected to socialize in informal settings. Seonghwa had learned to navigate these waters carefully, developing a reputation as private but not unfriendly, mysterious but not arrogant.
The event wound down with the usual ritual of signed books and brief interactions. Seonghwa's wrist ached from writing his name over and over, but he maintained his smile, nodding appreciatively at each reader who approached. His interpreter had stepped away briefly, leaving him to rely on lip-reading and written notes for the final few minutes.
He was nearly finished when a woman with sharp eyes and a press badge approached, sliding her copy of his latest novel across the table along with a business card. "Beautiful work," she mouthed clearly, waiting as he signed the title page. As he pushed the book back toward her, her gaze dropped to his right arm, where his sleeve had ridden up just enough to reveal the edge of his mark.
Her eyes widened with interest, and she tapped her own forearm, mouthing something Seonghwa couldn't quite catch. He tensed, quickly tugging his sleeve down and reaching for his phone to type a response. Before he could, she slid a notepad toward him with a question already written:
"Your mark…does it influence your writing? Many of your characters search for connections they fear they'll never find."
Seonghwa stared at the words, a familiar discomfort spreading through his chest. This wasn't the first time a perceptive reader had noticed the theme, but direct questions about his mark were rare. He picked up his pen and wrote beneath her question:
"I believe most people search for connection, marked or not. My characters reflect human nature, not my personal experience."
The woman read his response with a slight frown, clearly unsatisfied. She wrote again:
"Would you mind sharing what your mark says? Many readers would connect with your journey."
Seonghwa shook his head firmly, writing: "My mark is private. Thank you for understanding." He closed the notepad and handed it back to her with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, a clear dismissal.
Later, in the back seat of his publisher's car, Seonghwa leaned his head against the cool window and watched the city lights blur past. His interpreter had gone home, leaving him in blessed silence or what passed for silence in his experience, the constant visual noise of the world without its auditory companion.
"That went well," his publicist typed on her tablet, angling the screen toward him. "Great turnout. The store already asked about bringing you back for the next book."
Seonghwa nodded, too tired for a more enthusiastic response. These events drained him, the constant vigilance required to keep his private life separate from his public persona.
"Everything okay?" she typed, her expression concerned.
"Just tired," he typed back. "A reporter asked about my mark."
His publicist's face hardened slightly. "Who? I'll make sure they don't get advance copies next time."
Seonghwa waved off her concern. "It's fine. I handled it." He'd become adept at deflection over the years, at steering conversations away from personal waters. In interviews, he emphasized his work, his process and the themes that resonated with readers. If pressed about romance or relationships, he had stock answers about being dedicated to his craft, about finding fulfillment in creation rather than partnership.
It wasn't entirely untrue. He did find profound satisfaction in his writing, in crafting worlds where communication transcended spoken language. But there were nights when the mark on his arm seemed to burn with unfulfilled potential, when he wondered about the person who might someday say those words to him and whether they would be worth the long wait.
Back in his apartment, Seonghwa stripped off the button-down shirt he'd worn for the event and stood before the bathroom mirror, examining the mark that had shaped so much of his adult life. The words remained as crisp as the day they'd appeared, a decade of waiting having neither dimmed their color nor diminished their mystery.
He traced the letters with his fingertip, a ritual he performed less frequently now but hadn't abandoned entirely. The gesture had evolved from desperate questioning to something more like acknowledgment—a silent conversation with the universe that had played this inexplicable joke on him.
"I've done well for myself," he thought, meeting his reflection's eyes. "With or without you."
He had built a life around words on pages rather than words in the air. He had found ways to connect with readers across barriers of language and experience. He had, in his own way, transformed the silence of his existence into something resonant and meaningful.
If his soulmate never found him—if the mark on his arm remained an unanswered question—he would still have this: stories that bridged worlds, readers who found themselves in his pages, a voice that didn't require sound to be heard.
It would be enough.
≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾
Rain tapped against the windows of Seonghwa's apartment, creating a visual symphony he'd always found conducive to writing. His fingers moved steadily over the keyboard, crafting a scene for his fourth novel—a story about a cartographer who discovered lands that existed only when no one was looking for them. He paused occasionally to sip from a mug of tea that had long since gone cold, so absorbed in his work that he didn't notice the flashing light that indicated someone was at his door until its third insistent pulse.
With a sigh, he saved his document and padded across the hardwood floor, already knowing who he would find on the other side. Only Yunho would come to his house in this weather without texting first.
Sure enough, his best friend stood in the hallway, shaking water from an umbrella and beaming as if his unexpected arrival were perfectly reasonable. Despite the interruption to his writing flow, Seonghwa couldn't help but smile back. Yunho's presence had always been like sunshine, warm and impossible to resist.
"You're writing," Yunho signed after propping his umbrella against the wall, his quick glance taking in Seonghwa's rumpled shirt and the laptop opened in a almost filled document. "I can come back later."
Seonghwa shook his head. "I needed a break anyway." He stepped back, inviting Yunho in with a gesture. "Tea?"
"Yes, please.It's miserable out there."
They settled in Seonghwa's living room, Seonghwa joined Yunho on the sofa with a fresh cup of tea for each. The rain continued its silent percussion against the windows, casting rippling shadows across the walls. Yunho looked good—success suited him. His latest acting role in a historical drama had elevated him from "working actor" to "recognizable face," and there was a new confidence in the way he carried himself.
"How's the new book?" Yunho asked, his signs flowing with practiced ease.
"Coming along. My editor wants it by spring."
"And you'll make the deadline with months to spare, like always." Yunho grinned, taking a sip of his tea. "Some of us would kill for your discipline."
Seonghwa shrugged, uncomfortable as always with praise. "What brings you by? I thought you were filming in Busan this week."
"Wrapped early. The director got what he needed faster than expected." Yunho set his glass down, his expression shifting to something more purposeful. "And I came with an invitation."
Seonghwa narrowed his eyes. Yunho's "invitations" had a way of pushing him outside his carefully constructed comfort zone—usually for his own good, but not without resistance.
"There's a charity event next weekend," Yunho continued before Seonghwa could protest. "Black tie, very exclusive. Supporting arts education for disadvantaged children."
"And you want me to write a check?" Seonghwa asked hopefully.
Yunho laughed. "I want you to put on a tuxedo and come with me. It's at the National Museum. Good food, good champagne, and it's for a cause I know you care about."
Seonghwa hesitated.
He did care about educational access—his foundation had funded several literacy programs over the past few years. But a black-tie event meant hours of lip-reading and relying on his interpreter, navigating social niceties with people who either treated his deafness as fascinating or awkwardly pretended not to notice it.
"Who else will be there?" he asked, already looking for reasons to decline.
Yunho's eyes lit up, sensing an opening. "Everyone who matters in the arts world. A few government officials. Some international guests." He paused, then added with studied casualness, "Kim Hongjoong will be giving a small speech for his humanitarian work."
Seonghwa blinked, surprised. Even he recognized that name. Kim Hongjoong's scientific breakthroughs had made headlines for years—innovations in sustainable energy, medical technology, environmental restoration. The man was something of a modern Renaissance figure, brilliant across multiple disciplines and seemingly driven by genuine altruism rather than profit or fame.
"The scientist?" he confirmed, and Yunho nodded.
"He's being recognized for his prosthetics program, the one that provides cutting-edge limbs to children in developing countries." Yunho leaned forward, warming to his subject. "He's incredible, Hwa. Not just brilliant but actually using that brilliance to make real change. And he's our age, can you believe it?"
Seonghwa could, actually. He'd read an article about Hongjoong's work the previous year.Something about neural interfaces that allowed more natural movement in artificial limbs. The accompanying photo had shown a man with distinctive hair, half white and half black, bent over a workbench with intense concentration. He'd seemed both younger and older than his actual years, with the focused energy of someone perpetually rushing toward the next discovery.
"I'm sure he's fascinating," Seonghwa signed, "but I don't need to meet him in person to appreciate his work. You know how I feel about these events."
"I do," Yunho conceded. "But you haven't been out in weeks. You're becoming a hermit, and your publisher keeps calling me to check if you're still alive."
"Slight exaggeration."
Yunho's expression softened. "Look, I'm not asking you to stay all night. Just make an appearance. Support the cause. Maybe meet a few interesting people who aren't fictional characters in your head."
Seonghwa sighed, feeling his resolve weaken. Yunho had always known exactly how to persuade him—a combination of gentle teasing and genuine concern that was impossible to dismiss. And perhaps his friend was right; he had been isolating himself more than usual lately, using his writing as an excuse to avoid the complications of the outside world.
"I'd have to bring Min-su," he signed, referring to his interpreter.
"Already checked his availability. He's free."
Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. "Presumptuous of you."
"Confident," Yunho corrected with a grin. "So, is that a yes? Will you come rescue me from an evening of small talk with pretentious art collectors?"
Seonghwa looked at his friend, at the hopeful expectation in his eyes, the genuine affection behind his teasing and felt the familiar mixture of irritation and gratitude that Yunho never stopped pushing him.
"Fine," he signed with exaggerated reluctance. "One hour. I'll make an appearance, shake some hands, and then I'm leaving."
Yunho's face split into a triumphant smile. "You'll stay for at least two, and you'll thank me later."
Seonghwa rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. Something about the evening already felt significant, though he couldn't have explained why. Perhaps it was just the break in his routine.