Soulmates & Twin Flames

1 - A Fun Ride

Don't wear bulky boots in summer—even if you're wearing them under a bright green ball gown that's long enough to hide your feet. No bet is worth this torture. Seriously, why did I agree to such a ridiculous dare in the first place?

It's not about the money. Our bets with Olga are never about the money; they're about the humiliation. Sure, I was drunk when I agreed, and at the time, the idea of seeing my best friend stomping through Times Square in nothing but combat boots and a giant I LOST sign seemed hilarious. But I'm the one stuck wearing these boots every day for a month just to win!

"One more night," I mutter, slamming open the terrace's doors. One more freaking night, and the bet will finally be over. I just wish this night wasn't going as crappy as it was right now.

Stupid, two-faced, entitled producers... They woke me up at 3 a.m. a week ago, demanding I edit a twenty-minute-long scene for this movie gala. Urgently. Then I come here and find out they scrapped my work at the last minute. Why? Because a junior messed up cast releases. All those sleepless nights and endless hours of tweaking zombie makeup and perfecting that majestic bus explosion? Gone. Just like that. Poof!

I grab a champagne from a passing waiter and take a long swig. My feet have blisters from the stupid boots, and I swear, the bust of this strapless, a-line dress is squeezing the life out of me. I near the edge of the terrace and breathe in the thick August weather. The dust rising from the evening traffic stings, but I'll take it. I'll take this gritty, sewer-scented air. I'll take anything to put out the fire in my chest, my feet, and my face.

I shuffle my bangs and turn back, taking another sip of champagne. The cold fizz slides down my throat, and somehow, helps me breathe.

Beyond the terrace's doors, two men in tuxedos stand under crystal chandeliers in the grand foyer. Why aren't they watching the movie with everyone else? Are they actors? They can't be. One of them is too short—maybe five foot nine— and the other doesn't have the kind of facial symmetry the cameras adore. Still, they both look pretty hot from where I'm standing.

The shorter one takes out a velvet box, shakes it, and flips it open with a frown. The tall, muscular one pats the other's arm and gives his shoulders an encouraging shake.

I wish I could hear them. Looks like Mr. Muscle is prepping Frowny Face for war or something. I sip my champagne again as the shorter one stares at the box, then straightens up when Mr. Muscle punches his jaw playfully in slow motion.

It's been a while since someone touched me— and I don't mean intimately. A human touch, like the way Frowny slaps Muscle's cheek in a brotherly manner. My cheek, my hand, my hair... I'm in a drought.

My last relationship ended six years ago, the moment I graduated from high school. The breakup was messy and brutal—the kind that leaves you on the floor like a stain on a carpet. The kind that makes you feel like a dust ball, swept and piled into a corner.

Don't get me wrong, I went out with all sorts of guys later on. College was fun, but that's all it was. Meaningless fun.

I've been on dating apps, the most exclusive ones, swiping left and right. Although I matched with some pretty hot guys, we never had a real connection when we met. I can't bring myself to touch those apps anymore.

I've meditated, manifested, screamed seven-seven-seven in a moment of drunken desperation—it is supposed to be the number of the angels, by the way. I've grounded myself, saying I accept to receive, whatever...

But... You guessed it right. None of that stuff brings a meaningful relationship. At least, they haven't worked for me in the last six years.

So, I've decided that the problem isn't me, or the universe. It's the dating scene.