In a universe where everyone is born with numbers on their wrists counting down to when they’ll meet their soulmate, send me 00:00:00 for my muses reaction to their numbers hitting zero when they meet yours.
They say that somewhere in the world is a soulmate made just for you. That one day they would come out of nowhere and you’d just know because it would be in the way they laughed or the way they smiled. You’d spend hours thinking about it, the way your heart skipped a beat whenever their eyes met yours – clashing together like a hurricane and land. But it also appears that sometimes the lives are so busy that you hardly have a chance to see them, the way they sit on the same bus to work in the morning or that guy at the coffee shop that orders the coffee plain.
So that’s why the government implanted little chips designed to write numbers on your wrist of the soul mate. Whenever a body came in contact with their significant other, the one they were supposed to be with – the digits on their wrist would reach 00:00. So far it’s worked, it’s found couples and it worked for generations before.
Katniss Everdeen stares at it, though. Curious as to why it hasn’t even budged and if hers is faulty. Everyone always said that she’d belong with Gale but the numbers weren’t even close to none, and eventually down the line she had figured out why it didn’t work. They both held too much fire and were often in competition. Though they genuinely cared for one another, it wasn’t working. They weren’t meant to be, because a little pistol such as herself needed someone calm and easy. Understanding, who could love her for her.
The city is full of potential soulmates, but today as she focuses on her wrist nothing seems to change. The numbers move up and down according to the person, and it’s stupid to be paying attention because she’s already running late for work. It’s no time to be worrying about the future and settling down because she wasn’t even sure if that was what she wanted. Her eyes turn to the sound of the bus driving past the port, not even stopping to pick up those who were waiting to receive their ride leaving her in the dull colors of the area – and if Katniss thought she was running late before well she really was now.
Her fingers fly over the keys to her phone, leaving a message with her boss before her eyes catch the sight of a bakery down the way. It’s small and welcoming, cozy – probably warm compared to the chill. It’ll be 45 minutes until the next bus to take her over the bridge to work. That’s 45 minutes to evaluate her life. Her feet carry her fast – the way everyone moves here in New York, but her wrist twitches just the slightest. She ignores it, thinking it’s just the sleeve to her jacket. Mellark Bakery.
Mellark, it’s foreign for sure but that’s what New York is. A melting pot, but it sounds familiar – like something she’d pass in Virginia a time or two. Her hand lands on the door, silver eyes scanning inside the window. It’s tiny and spacious, and the aroma wavers outside the door before it’s even open. For a minute she feels like home, and her fingers turn the knob of the door and it flashes.
The numbers on her wrist drop significantly, double digits and moves. 24:00. Slowly the door creaks open and she’s met by blue eyes of an older man, who is side by side with his wife. They’re not it, she knows, because their wrists are marked 00:00 and he waves. “Hello, welcome to Mellark Bakery. Let us know when you’re ready.” Katniss offers some form of a smile, moving across the little row of tables and walking past a few tables of those that are occupied. Her wrist doesn’t go down but back up, and she groans. They were probably outside and now lost in New York City and she’d never find them. Her attention turns to the baked goods on display, causing her stomach to turn. Moving to the showcase, here’s another twitch to her wrist.
Ignoring it for good measure, until a different voice catches her attention. It’s young, gentle but strong. Time seems to stand still when grey crash with blue, and it happens the way they said it does. Her wrist registers 00:00 to the man across the counter, a man with blue eyes and curly blond hair. He smiles so warmly, and it’s clear that he is not like a fire in the mines that rages on. Instead he is calm and gentle, like the flowers in the meadow back in her hometown. He is kind and he is strong and he is hers.
“Hey.” He says, barely above a whisper. That smile stretches to something more boyish, a lopsided grin as he leans against the counter – hands covered in flour and dough caked under his nails and in the crevices of his fingers. The black numbers on his wrist are just as clear as hers, and she just smiles – mesmerized.
“Hey.” It’s light, but it’s hard to contain her smile. “I’ve been looking for you.”
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