He Was My Soulmate, But His First Words Were About The Leech On My Face

The darkness of the planetarium was a familiar comfort, a cool, quiet blanket against the city's noise. Above, the projected dome of the sky began to glow, pinpricks of light resolving into the sharp, impossible clarity of a desert night. A recorded voice, calm and resonant, began to narrate the slow waltz of the cosmos, but Elara wasn't listening. She never really did.

Her thumb traced the delicate, swirling script on the inside of her left wrist, a gesture so ingrained it was unconscious. The words had been a part of her for as long as she could remember, a permanent promise inked into her skin by destiny itself. I never believed in constellations until I saw them in your eyes.

A soft sigh escaped her lips. They were beautiful words. Profound words. They promised a soulmate who was thoughtful, poetic, and observant. A man who looked for deeper meaning, who saw the universe in a glance. He was probably an academic, she thought, maybe an astronomer or a philosophy professor. Someone she could spend hours with in museums, discussing art and history, before going home to read side-by-side in comfortable silence. He would understand the quiet parts of her, the ones that felt lonely and strange to everyone else.

This dream-man made her actual dating life feel like a series of frustratingly bad auditions for a role no one could fill. Last week, it had been Mark, a perfectly nice finance guy her friend had sworn was "a great catch." He’d spent their entire dinner talking about his portfolio and his golf handicap. When she’d tried to steer the conversation toward a new exhibit at the gallery, he’d smiled blankly and said, "I'm not really an artsy guy." He hadn’t even noticed the Mark on her wrist, let alone possessed the capacity to speak the words that would unlock her world.

The date had ended with a polite, passionless handshake. It was always like that. A pleasant evening that ultimately felt hollow, a waste of time. Every man she met was a reminder of who she was truly waiting for.

The narrator's voice pointed out Andromeda, a faint smudge of light that was, in reality, a galaxy of a trillion stars. Elara stared at it, feeling a familiar ache in her chest. The words on her wrist were a blessing and a curse. They promised her a love of cosmic proportions, but they also made her current reality feel impossibly small and lonely. She wanted to meet him. She wanted to finally hear the words spoken aloud, to feel the universe click into place. She was tired of waiting for the stars to align.

Across town, Finn was wrist-deep in a different kind of universe. The frantic yapping of a terrier with a penchant for eating socks echoed off the sterile tile of the clinic’s treatment room. He held the small dog steady while the vet expertly palpated its abdomen, his own touch firm but gentle.

“He’ll be fine,” Dr. Albright said, finally letting the dog go. “Just needs the fluids and we’ll keep him overnight for observation.”

Finn nodded, expertly unhooking the IV line and moving the terrier to a recovery kennel. As he settled the dog into the soft bedding, his short-sleeved scrub top rode up, exposing the black letters printed high on his bicep. He caught a glimpse of them in the reflection of the stainless-steel kennel door and his stomach gave a familiar, unpleasant twist.

Unlike the romantic poetry or charming quips that adorned most people, his Mark was blunt, clinical, and utterly horrifying. In stark, blocky letters, it read: Excuse me, you have a leech on your face.

He tugged his sleeve down instinctively. For thirty years, those nine words had been his personal curse. They weren't a promise of love; they were a prophecy of humiliation. He imagined the scene constantly. Some poor woman, probably lovely, emerging from a murky pond or swamp—places he now avoided with a religious fervor—with a disgusting, blood-sucking parasite attached to her cheek. And he, Finn, would be the one to deliver the news. What a meet-cute.

It had shaped his life in small, insidious ways. He turned down invitations to lake houses. He’d never gone canoeing. When his friends planned a camping trip near a marshy bird sanctuary, he’d faked a 24-hour flu. He’d seen the pitying looks when he’d occasionally let the Mark show at a public pool in his teens. It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t intriguing. It was just… gross.

His cynicism about the whole soulmate concept was bone-deep. Destiny, he figured, had a terrible sense of humor, and he was the punchline to one of its worst jokes. He didn’t dream of a soulmate. He dreaded her. He just wanted to get the moment over with, to rip off the bandage of cosmic destiny so he could move on with his life without the constant, low-level anxiety of a potential leech sighting. He pictured his fated partner not as a lover, but as a victim of both a bloodsucking annelid and his own terrible luck. He hoped she had a good sense of humor. He hoped she didn't faint.

The quiet solitude of her apartment was shattered by a frantic scrabbling sound from the living room, followed by a distinct gulp. Elara looked up from her book to see her sleek black cat, Orion, sitting on the rug, licking his lips with an air of immense satisfaction. On the floor beside him lay her favorite wool coat, minus one of its large, antique jet buttons.

A cold dread washed over her. “Orion, no.”

She lunged for him, but it was too late. He looked up at her, blinked his wide, green eyes, and let out a small, button-filled burp. Panic, sharp and acidic, clawed its way up her throat. A frantic search on her phone confirmed her fears and led her to the city’s only 24-hour emergency veterinary clinic.

An hour later, she was huddled in a hard plastic chair in the waiting room, the sterile smell of antiseptic burning her nose. Orion was mewing pitifully from his carrier at her feet. The room was otherwise empty, amplifying her anxiety. Every tick of the clock on the wall felt like a judgment.

The door to the back swung open and a man in blue scrubs walked out, a clipboard in his hand. He looked tired, his dark hair endearingly messy, but his eyes were alert and kind as they found her.

“Elara? For Orion?” he asked, his voice low and calming.

She just nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.

“I’m Finn. Let’s get him to the back so Dr. Albright can take a look, okay? He’s going to be in good hands.” He knelt, his movements efficient and gentle as he took the carrier from her. His hand brushed hers, and the brief contact was warm and steady. He offered her a small, reassuring smile before disappearing through the door with her entire world in a plastic box.

The silence that followed was even worse. Elara wrapped her arms around herself, staring blankly at a generic poster on the wall depicting a mountain lake under a starry sky. It was meant to be soothing, but it just made her think of the planetarium, of fate, of how cosmic forces had aligned to have her cat swallow a piece of her wardrobe.

When Finn returned a few minutes later, she was still staring at the poster. “The doctor is doing an x-ray now,” he said softly, not wanting to startle her. “We’ll know more soon.”

He followed her gaze to the poster. “Big fan of the night sky?”

She let out a shaky breath, the words tumbling out in a nervous rush. “My cat’s name is Orion. It’s my favorite constellation. It felt… appropriate. Stupid, I know.”

“Not stupid at all,” he said, his smile genuine. “It’s a good, strong name.” He leaned against the reception desk, crossing his arms. The fabric of his sleeve pulled tight against his bicep. “I have to admit, the only constellations I know are the ones they mention in old sci-fi movies.”

The comment was so unexpected that a small laugh escaped her. It was the first time she’d felt a muscle in her face relax all night. “That’s a valid way to learn.”

“Is it?” He grinned, and the tiredness in his eyes was replaced by a warm, playful light. “I was always worried the movie got them wrong and I’d be pointing out the ‘Klingon Cluster’ to someone who actually knew what they were talking about.”

She was about to reply, to tell him she could show him the real ones sometime, when a woman in scrubs poked her head out of the treatment room door. “Finn! We’ve got a GSW, ETA two minutes!”

His demeanor shifted instantly, all traces of humor replaced by focused professionalism. “On my way.” He gave Elara an apologetic look. “I have to go. Someone will be out to update you as soon as we have the x-ray results.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving her alone once more in the quiet room, the echo of his easy laugh still hanging in the air.