Do you believe in soulmates? Why or why not?
I. Crosswalk Weather
I once watched two strangers wait at a crossing
while rain gathered itself in the folds of evening.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No violin music.
No lightning.
And, No universe folding paper stars around them.
One checked a phone.
One shifted grocery bags from one hand to another.
Traffic sighed.
A bus inhaled people and exhaled silence.
And still—
I remember them.
Because sometimes the mind keeps small things
the way rivers keep stones,
rolling them slowly
until they become smooth enough to hold.
People ask whether I believe in soulmates.
As if belief were a switch.
As if hearts operated like locked doors
waiting for one correct key.
I have never known answers that arrived so neatly.
II. The Architecture of Waiting
When I was younger,
I thought love and destiny were roommates.
I imagined somewhere
a person carrying the missing half of my weather.
Someone whose laugh
would fit the empty hooks in my ribs.
The world encourages this.
Songs whisper it.
Movies sell tickets to it.
Even lonely nights participate,
placing moonlight on empty pillows
like evidence.
So I searched.
In classrooms.
Metro stations.
Bookstores smelling of dust and glue.
I searched in conversations stretched past midnight
where people become temporary philosophers.
I searched in eyes.
Mostly, I searched in absence.
Because absence is persuasive.
It tells stories with great confidence.
III. Rivers Do Not Apologize for Curves
A river never asks permission to change direction.
It meets stone.
Moves around it.
Carries pieces away.
Returns different.
People are less forgiving.
We expect permanence from creatures
made almost entirely of change.
Who were you five years ago?
Who loved you then?
Would that earlier version of yourself
recognize your current griefs?
Your current humor?
Your habits?
The tea you drink now?
Your silence?
If humans keep moving internally,
what exactly would a soulmate attach itself to?
The old self?
The new one?
The version visible only during insomnia?
Perhaps the meaning of soulmates
was never permanence.
Perhaps it was endurance through revision.
IV. Apartment Lights
Across cities, windows glow.
Someone washes dishes.
Someone waits for a message.
And, Someone deletes one.
Someone argues quietly.
Someone reheats leftovers
for two.
And, Someone reheats leftovers
for one.
Urban nights teach strange lessons.
You realize every illuminated square
contains a private universe.
Entire emotional climates.
Tiny civilizations built from routines.
And somewhere inside these boxes of light
people keep asking the same questions.
Will I be chosen?
Did I miss someone?
Is there only one?
The city never answers.
It simply changes traffic signals.
V. Dialogue with the Philosopher
The philosopher inside me says:
If destiny exists,
why does geography matter?
Why timing?
Why accidents?
And, Why delayed trains?
Why wars?
Why wrong numbers?
And, Why courage?
Why fear?
Would fate require so many variables?
The philosopher drinks cold tea
and mistrusts certainty.
But another voice interrupts.
VI. Dialogue with the Child
The child inside me says:
Maybe magic doesn’t disappear.
Maybe it matures.
And, Maybe wonder survives adulthood
wearing practical shoes.
Maybe emotional connection
does not need proof.
Maybe two people repeatedly choosing one another
is miraculous enough.
Children ask simpler questions.
Sometimes simpler questions
are harder.
VII. Winter Turning
Late winter is strange.
Trees appear dead
while secretly negotiating spring.
I think humans do this too.
We call periods of transformation
by harsher names:
failure
heartbreak
wasted years
wrong person
Yet roots continue working underground.
I have loved people
who were not meant to stay.
Still—
they altered my architecture.
One taught me patience.
One taught me boundaries.
And, One taught me departure.
One taught me
that kindness during endings
deserves more celebration.
If soulmates exist only as permanent arrivals,
what do we call the people
who reshape our interior landscapes
before leaving?
Temporary soulmates?
Teachers?
Weather systems?
VIII. The Bench Near Water
There is a bench beside a river
where old people sit.
Not all of them sit together.
Some watch ducks.
Some feed pigeons.
And, Some stare at distances
invisible to younger eyes.
Once I saw an elderly couple there.
No cinematic perfection.
One complained about knees.
One complained about prices.
Both complained about birds.
Yet they passed snacks back and forth
without looking.
Years had turned care
into muscle memory.
Watching them, I thought:
Maybe love and destiny
have been confused with spectacle.
Maybe devotion often appears ordinary.
And, Maybe the deepest forms of human relationships
look boring from far away.
Maybe that is their strength.
IX. What the Wind Keeps
Wind enters every story.
Open windows.
Train platforms.
Hospital entrances.
Funerals.
First dates.
The wind has touched everyone
and remained loyal to nobody.
Still we call it beautiful.
Maybe connection works similarly.
Not ownership.
Not completion.
Movement.
Influence.
Presence.
Departure.
Return.
A person does not need to belong to you forever
to matter forever.
X. Answer Without Conclusion
So—
do I believe in soulmates?
Some days yes.
Some days no.
Most days I believe something softer.
I believe humans create meaning
through repetition.
Through remembering coffee preferences.
Through carrying extra umbrellas.
And, Through learning silence.
Through staying during difficult versions.
Through leaving gently when staying becomes impossible.
I believe emotional connection
is partly accident
and partly craftsmanship.
I believe destiny may exist
but probably appreciates assistance.
And, I believe loneliness sometimes disguises itself
as philosophy.
I believe philosophy sometimes disguises itself
as loneliness.
And I believe this:
If there is one person made exactly for you,
the universe was terribly risky.
If there are many possible people,
the universe was generous.
Either way—
we still have to notice each other.
Back at the rainy crossing,
the strangers eventually walked away
in opposite directions.
Perhaps they never met again.
Perhaps they married.
And, Perhaps they forgot one another entirely.
I do not know.
What remains with me
is smaller.
More useful.
Rain.
Traffic.
Two ordinary people
sharing one red light
for thirty-seven seconds.
Enough time
for possibility.
Enough time
for a question.
And, Enough time
to understand that mystery itself
may be the closest thing
we have ever had
to certainty.
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