Ink | Soulmate AU | ✓

six | secrets

   I let the idea carry me away; the word George swam peacefully around my brain as I drifted from thought to thought. I was almost dreaming, except I was awake and caffeine ricocheted through my veins — coffee was at once my saviour and my nemesis.

   I didn't know any Georges; none that I could think of, anyway. It was hard to recall, it being 1am and my brain being pretty much like syrup at this point, ready to ooze out of my ears any second and make the ancient carpet even stickier than it already was. I'd read the poem over and over again, unable to focus on anything else, and time had become irrelevant as words became everything.

   I'd done this many times before - stayed up all night to read the writing on my skin - but never had the story had an author, not until now. It was as if I suddenly knew him; although I thought I had before, somehow everything was different now. And I was a dozen times more lonely without him beside me.

   The inclusion of his name had changed it from a work of fiction to an autobiography, and this person— this person was real. He had parents, and a house, maybe even a dog; God, I loved dogs. Maybe George had a dog. How wonderful. How absolutely wonderful.

   Suddenly, a sharp thought entered my mind: it was a dangerous thought, but it couldn't possibly be ignored. Surely George would be asleep by now? Any sane human would — hence why I wasn't. If I were to write a message for him now, there must be a good chance he wouldn't see it till morning. And somehow the delay of him inevitably seeing it helped me panic less about what I was about to do.

   Because I knew, now, that George felt the same way I did: empty and lost and alone in the world. Maybe he'd said it in a poem, but I wasn't that clever.

   I'd stayed strong for so long; of course I had urges, urges to respond, to reply, to let him know I was there, that I had always been there. But I'd never needed him before. Now I felt completely alone. I was afraid.

   I knew it would be possibly the worst decision I'd ever made, but right then, I didn't care. I knew I could be caught, convicted, put to death. I knew it was stupid. But in reality, I was willing to take the risk— actually, no. That wasn't right. It wasn't a risk.

   For it to be a risk, you had to have something to lose.

   What did I have? My life? That was a joke. Living off caffeine and anxiety, what was that? Not life, surely; not freedom. This was freedom. Love was freedom, and I wasn't going to be trapped anymore.

   In a daze, I ambled over to the kitchen table, practically sleep-walking. I reminded myself to stay chained to my bed throughout the entire next weekend, and to bin my entire stash of cheap instant coffee. Slowly, I rummaged my way through the piles of God-knows-what that littered the table; shoving an old art project - one with a big fat E grade written on it in red marker, as well as the message see me, which I had dutifully ignored - to the side, my fingers brushed over an ancient fountain pen sitting in a pool of crusty blue ink.

   Scribbling wildly on a piece of paper, I got a rush of adrenaline when I discovered that it did, just barely, work.

   This was real. This was happening.

   A smile tugged at my lips as ideas danced through my head; things I should say, things I really shouldn't, how to make myself seem even remotely normal to someone I'd never met. The thought was intoxicating. I'd been reading his story for something like nineteen years now, maybe it was time he heard mine.

   Of course, there was a chance this could go horribly and disastrously wrong — but it wouldn't; I'd just tell him how much I liked his poem, and see what came of it.

   It wasn't like talking to someone was a crime, even if it was an unconventional and very definitely illegal method of conversation. I was lonely, damn it. I'd been living on my own for almost a year now, and I wasn't exactly Miss Popular on campus. I just wanted someone to talk to, someone who'd listen. Really listen.

   I stopped, deep in thought. Was I done justifying this to myself? The raw reality was that I was doing this because I wanted to, and because he was my soulmate. Because if I didn't do this now, I might never have the courage to again, and I knew I'd regret it if I didn't ever take the chance.

   Pushing the negative thoughts and any remaining doubt away, I decided to start simple; one step at a time. In a messy 1am scrawl, I wrote on my other arm in bright blue ink, my heart racing:

   I love you

   The pen dribbled its last drop of ink before it gave up.

   No, no, no. This couldn't be happening. Oh my God. I was meant to write I love your poem. Start slow. Have a normal human conversation without everything falling apart, like it always did.

   My mind raced, any lingering tiredness totally obliterated by the panic that now engulfed me like a roaring flame.

   I had wanted to take the next step, it was true, but I was fairly sure I'd just fallen down the entire flight of stairs.

   The rational thought of get another pen you bumbling idiot seemed far away as I tried to think of a solution to the quandary I was in. Telling someone who you'd never met that you loved them, out of nowhere, was a little presumptuous. My mind swam. I'd ruined everything, and—

   The reply came. And I'd almost—almost—forgotten about that black ink.

   Hello, Archie.