Run.

I stared down at my arm, blinking the sleep out of my eyes. Three little letters appeared on my arm in calligraphy-ish font.

Run.

Why… run? Most of my friends had cute little phrases or cheesy pick-up lines; Shareen had If you were a vegetable you'd be a cutecumber (yuck) and Keisha had Oh my gosh I'm SO SORRY! (Interesting, but signifying that she'll most likely bump into her soulmate and make him spill his coffee all over herself. Typical Keisha.) But some were better. Some were even so good they could pass for actual tattoos.

You see, in my world, we have this little oddity- the first phrase (or word, in my case) your soulmate will say to you appears as a tattoo on your arm the morning of your 18th birthday. I had been excited for this for as long as I can remember. When I was little, I used to dream that something disgustingly romantic would appear, but as I got older and more realistic I figured it'd say something like Hi, or Can I sit here?, or What are you staring at?

"Rose!" My mum called. I sat up, hiding my arm under the blankets. I doubt she'd be happy about the vagueness of my soulmate's first word to me. Maybe she'd forgotten...

"Well? Let's see!" She said eagerly.

Crap.

I slid my arm out from under the quilt and held it up for her to see. She stared at it for what seemed like several hours (when in reality it was about one and a half seconds), and cleared her throat.

"Wow. Ok."

"I know, mum." I sighed. "I was hopin' for something different, too. Somethin' more romantic, eh?" I attempted to smile, but failed miserably.

Mum sat down on the edge of my bed, taking my tattooed arm in her hands. She thought for several moments, then spoke. No- no, s'not that... I guess you'll meet 'im during a marthon or somethin'? Maybe 'e'll be encouragin' you to run, eh?

She was trying to make light of the situation, but I could sense her worry. After dad died when I was a baby, I was all she had. What if I was going to be running from something dangerous, and I'd get hurt?

"Mum," I said gently, removing my arm from her hands, "I'll be fine. It's probably just like you said. I'll most likely meet my future boyfriend durin' a marathon. There's nothin' to worry about."

She sighed, then smiled. "You're right. Now," she said, getting to her feet, "your pancakes are gettin' cold. Then you gotta get ready for work." She smiled, bopping me on the head with one of my pillows, then leaving me alone to get ready for the day.

That year passed, and after a while, we tried to forget about the fateful tattoo on my forarm. We succeeded... almost.

Of course, my friends all wanted to see my tattoo. Some were intrigued, and some pitied me. Obvoiusly mine wasn't going to be love at first sight, as some of the silly, romantic phrases on their arms suggested.

Now, I laugh at how wrong they were.

Several months after my 19th birthday, I woke up grumpier than usual. I was becoming sick with my life as a shop girl, catering to the higher class. I needed more.

That's when I met him.

In the basement of the shop. Not very romantic, right? I was stuck down there, fighting off the maniquins, and he appeared. All leather, ears, and accent.

He grabbed my hand, and whispered:

Run.