Newt had heard the stories, knew them like the back of his hand: everybody has a soulmate in this world, one person made just for them, blah, blah, blah. Their initials were inscribed on everybody's chest, just to the left of the sternum, directly over the heart. That he was fine with.
The problem for him, personally, lay within the other condition: that if you came within close proximity of your soulmate, but failed to meet them, you would have to relive the day until you succeeded. Which, in theory, seems like a good idea, but that's because most people didn't fuck up this badly.
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People were told that soulmates guaranteed a year of happiness. A year to feel complete and whole. A year where you were with the one person who could understand you.
And then they died and you find yourself scrapped of whatever good thing you had and left hollow. It's why most people avoided soulmates the chance of death, or worse, the chance of being the one left behind, acted as a deterrent. Some people though seek out their soulmate anyways. They risk their life and home to find them. They hurt those closest to them for a chance to feel that wholeness that was promised, that happiness, that perfection. Even if it only lasts a year. Some people meet their soulmates.
Only to realize that sometimes, soulmates are just as hollow as you are.
or
The sequel to "I Was Meant To Die In Your Arms"