Ellie
For two weeks, I lived in a dream.
Not the kind where you're flying or showing up to an exam without pants. I'm talking about the kind of dream you don't even know you're in until you wake up. The dream of silence.
For the first time since I was a teenager, I slept. Not the light, fitful dozing I'd grown accustomed to, where every creak of the building or distant siren was a potential invasion of my soulmate's feelings, waking him up, and therefore, waking me up as well. I mean slept. The deep, dreamless, dead-to-the-world sleep of a hibernating bear. I'd wake up feeling… rested. It was a foreign, almost suspicious feeling, like finding a fifty-dollar bill in the pocket of an old coat. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop onto my head. It didn't.
The reason was simple: the intense volatility of his emotions, that I had felt for eleven years was gone.
In its place was a gentle, warm hum. It wasn't the dramatic, soul-shattering feeling the storybooks promised you had when you met your soulmate. It was quieter. More functional. It was like the feeling of sitting in a patch of sunlight on a cool afternoon, or the low, comforting rumble of a luxury car engine. It was pleasant. It was peaceful. And it was coming directly from him.
At first, I was just grateful. After a decade of his emotional chaos—a non-stop concert of lust, boredom, and hangovers—this quiet was a gift from the gods. But then, being the over-analyzer that I am, I put the pieces together. The timing was too perfect. The peace started right after that strange, sharp feeling of intrigue in the club. He must have met someone. He must be falling in love.
The thought should have been heartbreaking. It was, in a strange, abstract way, like finding out your favorite weird, noisy neighbor is finally moving out. You'll miss the chaos, but not the noise.
Mostly, it was a massive, overwhelming relief.
I, Elowen Vance, was actively rooting for my soulmate to fall in love with another woman.
I hoped she was sweet. I hoped she smiled like the sun and would make him feel wholesome. I hoped she baked cookies for orphans and rescued stray dogs in her spare time. I wanted her to be perfect. I wanted her to be a walking, talking Hallmark card, someone exactly a chaotic man like my soulmate needed.
"Please, please, please let this work," I whispered to my laptop screen, looking at a picture of some guy cooing at a golden retriever. "Let her be the one. Settle down, buy a house, get a dog, and for the love of all that is holy, leave me alone."
A tiny, stupid part of my heart felt a twinge at the thought. A little pull, like a loose thread on a sweater. I ignored it. That was just the cosmic bond between us – the one that made us soulmates – being clingy. I told that part of my heart to shut up and get with the program. Freedom was the goal.
For a glorious week, it seemed to be working. The warm hum was a constant presence in the back of my mind. I was more focused at work. My best friend, Sil, even commented that I seemed less likely to "verbally gut a barista for getting my order wrong." I was happy. Or, at least, I was on my way to a state I could pretend was happiness.
I found myself daydreaming about him too, which was a new and unsettling experience. I'd never let myself do it before. But now, with the distance of his newfound peace, I could think about him without wanting to bang my head against a wall. I'd never seen him, of course. He was just a feeling, sometimes a voice, but mostly a presence. I knew he must be beautiful. It wasn't just because he was a player, and players, by their very nature, tend to have a certain aesthetic. It was because I could feel the beauty of his emotions. The sharp, clean lines of his confidence, the terrifying thrill of his fear, the turbulent, stormy seas of his anger. He lived his life on a higher emotional frequency, and there was a terrible, captivating beauty to it. I hated him for it, of course. I hated that he had dragged me along on his rollercoaster for years, that I was the unwilling passenger on his ride through life. Especially since he was probably a Null, blissfully unaware, while I was the only one suffering.
But now, he was calm. And I was rested. It was a truce.
Then, a few days later, the crack appeared.
It was a Tuesday evening. I was at home, curled up on my couch with a book and a cup of herbal tea, enjoying the quiet. Suddenly, a sharp spike of frustration pierced the calm. It was like a needle in a balloon. It was followed by a wave of anxiety so potent it made my own heart race.
Was he on a date? It must not be going well.
I could feel his distress in the rapid beating of my heart, and in the way my blood rushed from my brain to my arms, legs and back to my heart, making me short of breath.
The old him was coming back.
Over the next few days, the peace crumbled. The warm hum was replaced by a chaotic mix of emotions. There was his genuine attraction – a sweet, tender feeling that was like a sip of hot chocolate. But it was always followed by a chaser of disappointment, a bitter wave of frustration. He was desperate.
And a desperate soulmate is a noisy soulmate.
It all came to a havoc during a crucial client meeting. I was in the middle of presenting a new PR strategy for a new brand of artisanal soap, my PowerPoint slides an example of corporate competence, when I was hit by a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated rage. It was so intense, so visceral, that I saw white. My hands started shaking.
"Ms. Vance?" my client, a very serious woman named Mrs. Lim, asked, her voice laced with concern. "Are you sure you're alright? You look like you're about to flip the table."
I took a deep breath, my professional mask cracking. "I'm so sorry," I managed to say, my voice tight. "I think… I think I need a moment."
I fled to the restroom, splashing cold water on my face. I could feel him today, almost like I was with him physically. He was in his car. He was pounding his steering wheel, his head roaring back with a vengeance. He was angry at himself, at the world, at something he couldn't control.
And in that moment, hunched over a cold, marble sink, I snapped.
This couldn't go on. I couldn't live my life at the mercy of his emotional whims. I couldn't let his desperation ruin my career. I had tried waiting. I had tried hoping. It was time for a new approach.
My reflection in the mirror looked different. The tired, resigned woman was gone, replaced by someone with a glint in her eye. A dangerous, determined glint.
"Fine," I said to my reflection. "So, maybe the girl he likes is playing hard to get. Or maybe she's just oblivious. Either way, it's unacceptable. My sleep schedule is not a toy."
A plan started to form in my mind, a crazy, ridiculous, brilliant plan. I wasn't going to win him over. He was a beautiful disaster, and I was a sensible woman who liked her houseplants alive. I was going to be his wingman. I was going to orchestrate the greatest, most epic romance of the 21st century. I was going to push him and this woman together with such force that they would have no choice but to fall madly, deeply, and peacefully in love.
I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen. I didn't need a burner email this time. I needed my real one. I needed my credentials. I needed to get close.
Operation:Make the Player Fall in Love… with someone else, was officially underway. And I, Elowen Vance, was the mastermind.
What could possibly go wrong?