I lived a quiet life. I never spoke unless spoken to, and even then I would rarely speak, only speaking in the minimum amount of words to be understood. I kept to myself and never really had anyone to call a friend.
My parents thought it was unnecessary. We were Korean people who lived in Korea, the chance I would meet any of my soulmates were all minuscule. All my Soulmarks were written in Japanese, all with distinct handwriting.
Ash brown kanji was printed onto the inner part of my right wrist, right over my pulse. The handwriting was impeccably neat and reminded me of font that you would see on a computer.
Fancy and elegantly written kanji found itself on my right collarbone, nestled into the small dip of my pale skin. Unlike the eye catching handwriting, the color was a soft and comforting lavender that blended well into my skin.
Forest green brush strokes were drawn onto my left side, right at my pelvic bone, just a bit below my waist line. The kanji was similar to the Japanese calligraphy I would see in historical films or the Korean calligraphy I saw in museums.
Loopy writing found itself on my left bicep, the kanji still looking neat despite being all curvy and bubbly looking on my skin. The words were a bright periwinkle that could attract the attention of anyone who took even a quick glance at me.
Indigo blue kanji was marked onto my left ankle, wrapping around the left side. The handwriting was small and thin, similar to a teacher's handwriting or a college student taking neat notes.
For as long as I could remember, dark bands covered my ankle, wrist, and bicep; while plaster covered my collar bone and pelvic bone. And for as long as I could remember, I absolutely despised covering up my Soulmarks all the time. I hated it as a child because the material was scratchy and uncomfortable. That was before I truly understood what those marks meant to me and my life.
After learning what the writing on my skin had truly been, I grew angry. No one else I knew covered their marks. People would often ask me if I was injured or hurting because of the bands and plaster covering me. I couldn't tell them that these were my Soulmarks.
So, I grew up expecting to finish my required education in America or Korea and then go to a Japanese University. Imagine my surprise when, right before my second year of middle school, my parents announced that we would be moving to Japan for work reasons.
The fact that I was going to Japan meant a lot, but only to me. My mother had already met her soulmates in Korea. One was a Japanese exchange student that she kept in touch in over the years ever since college, one was her childhood friend from church who lived in Sacramento, and the final soulmate was my father. My father had four soulmates, one female and one male, who were pilots, were romantics together, and often went around the world, a third being a Japanese friend who settled down with a family, and the last being my mother. My older sister had three soulmates, but had only met one, a platonic. But all the names were distinctly American and she planned on staying in America to find them.
I have never met a single one of my soulmates, platonic or otherwise. Coming to Japan meant a better chance of meeting them.
I, of course, knew Japanese because of a fear of a language barrier when meeting my Soulmates. I pushed myself to learn another language so I could be just as fluent as I was in Korean. English was something I picked up in Korea and polished when moving to America during my fifth year of elementary school. There was literally nothing that was holding me back.
With the move confirmed, I had the stupidest smile plastered to my face. Then, my sister had to burst my bubble with a single sentence.
"You wouldn't have the balls to talk to your soulmate, even if you knew that they were your's."
There was nothing holding me back, except for that.
I slipped the headphones over my ears as my parents got settled into the seats next to me. I looked out towards the Incheon Airport and rubbed the plaster covering my collarbone to calm my troubled mind.