AHAHAHAHAHA I HAVE NO CREATIVITY ;-;
BY BOBATEA
Every. Single. Fucking. Day.
Jesus. Christ.
Scribbles always appeared on your arm, running up and down your arms liking millions of little tattoos.
Whoever the hell this was must have REALLY liked writing.
And I don't think I like them.
Currently, it was 92 degrees, and you were dying, wearing a sweater trying to cover up what your soulmate had so cleverly written.
Note the sarcasm.
Some tattoos written consisted of "Fuck Jefferson" and others consisted of well written sentences such as, "And if not, I'll be Socrates throwing verbal rocks at these mediocrities!"
You, for one, only had one thing that you knew would be displayed on your soulmate's arm forever:
Fuck you.
It was petty, sure, considering once you found them, you would spending the rest of your life together, but it was better than what you had to endure, trying to cover yourself up.
...
"Come on, Y/N!" Y/B/F pleaded, bouncing up and down the bed, crunching on a potato chip. "I want to go swimming!"
"No!" you shot back. "My arms look like monstrosities!"
I wish my soulmate hated writing.
"Well," your best friend suggested, "Soulmates never live too far away from eachother, right? Maybe you'll see him, or her," she wiggled her eyebrows. "There."
You shook your head for a moment, considering the idea.
What if my soulmate was actually there?
"And where did you read that?"
Y/B/F shrugged nonchalantly. "Harvard. Al least, that's what the article stated."
"Oh."
Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.
After a considerable silence, you groaned, and Y/B/F grinned, knowing that you had given in.
Please make this trip worth my time.
...
Upon entering the pool, you see kids scattered around the area, playing with eachother, and shooting eachother with water guns.
Y/B/F immediately shrieks like a child, and jumps into the water. You shake your head and laugh at her, pulling out a book and start to read.
You sneak a quick glance at the lifeguard, who looks to be about your age.
He winks at you and raises an eyebrow.
Crap. He caught you!
You roll your eyes, giving him a playful smile.
He steps down from his chair, grinning at you.
"What book you reading?"
"Eragon, by Christopher Paolini," you reply vaguely.
"Hey, sorry, might be a bad question, but did you write all of that on your arms by yourself?" he said, his ponytail swinging as motions to your arms.
"No. Soulmate tattoo," you reply shortly, and dive back into your book.
No! Why did Brom have to die?
He appears to look shocked, and you flick a glance up, and soon, his expression changes to then curious.
You frown at him suspiciously and he laughs again.
His smile is stunning, you think, unashamed.
"Do you, uh-happen to be the girl who artistically wrote "Fuck you" as my soulmate tattoo?" he chuckles, shaking his head.
No. Way.
"Oh my god, are you the hockey-puck who happened to make me suffer every summer when I go to cover this-" you gesture to your arms, "mess up?"
You laugh in disbelief.
"Mm. Maybe," he smirks confidently. "Alexander. Alexander Hamilton. It's a pleasure to meet you."
He holds out his hand.
You take it and shake lightly.
"Y/N. Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you too."
"John, can you cover my shift? Found my soulmate!"
"Alright!" comes a voice from the lifeguard house.
"Want to ditch this place and get some coffee?" he said, and grinned at you again.
"Hell yeah."