What happens when a band member starts texting you?

"i hate you, you insufferable son of a bitch! i absolutely fucking hate you" "oh, i'm the only one who's allowed to hate me! i'm the sun king!" [all lowercase intentional. mental health themes as well as vulgar language follow. read with care]

"We're the worst couple," Remington laughed, lacing our fingers together. "Just two suicidal kids trying to make it through life." "I like your scars," I said, tracing my finger over the lines of his skin. "They make you who you are." He flashed a smile at me. "Thank you, baby." If only I'd known a few months later what I'd be facing.

It begins when you're sixteen. Every little mark your soulmate makes on their arms appears on yours. Mindless doodles. Class notes. Dicks from their annoying brother. Appointment reminders. Stray slip-ups. Intricate pieces of artwork. Everything. But you can never write back. For 19 year old Lacey Oaks, it was beautiful, detailed, intricate pieces of art. Buildings. Trees. People. All very Victorian. The occasional dick, which was quickly scribbled out. For 21 year old Emerson Barrett, it was mostly cuts.