I stare dumbfounded as the inky symbols swirl on Hannah’s arm, before stilling into place. They seem to hum, like the deep breathing of a sleeping dog. The black lines undulate, pulsing against her tanned forearms, forming a spiral.

“Pretty cool, huh?”

“How did…when did…” I stammer.

“Night before my twentieth birthday. My mom said she got hers around then too.” Hannah can’t stop staring at the tattoo, which days ago, hadn’t been there. There had been no signs, though I guess that was to be expected.

It came at different times for everyone, but the appearance of your soul mate tattoo was certainly an event to celebrate. Much more exciting than starting your period. It let you know that you’d be loved, that all you had to do was look for the person with the matching tattoo and you’d be whole.

The waitress places a teapot and cups down on our table. I risk a glance at her forearm. It’s practically a sleeve of tattoos. I try not to stare at the number of faded symbols. The tattoos are never wrong. The ink only fades when your soul mate leaves this earth. I quickly look away before she can catch me staring.

Hannah must mistake my silence for envy, because she quickly places her hand on top of mine.

“Don’t worry, Elle,” she says, in her ever reassuring tone. “I know your ink will come soon.”

Hannah, with her mousy hair and colourful clothing, the poster woman for kindergarten teachers, the sweet, innocent, people pleasing, perfect, nurturing, kindest soul - could never guess my secret. To be fair, this is the first one I’ve kept from her. Ever.

I can’t meet her gaze, eyes wide with concern.

“I’m sorry…I shouldn’t be bragging…”

I have to stop this, before she spirals. “No no, Hannah, of course! This is so exciting! I’m happy for you!”

But even as I say it, I feel as if the spot just below my rib cage is burning, as if the inky design is searing itself into my skin, branding me for ignoring it.

What choice did I have? When the tattoo arrived a few weeks ago, I was ecstatic. I felt like I’d finally been allowed into a club that had previously been closed to me. That I too was now protected from having to search for love, but the comforting knowledge that fate would guide me to my soul mate.

Until the second tattoo appeared, moments later, this time on my forearm. Insistent on being known and seen.

I hadn’t told anyone about either inks, hoping that by ignoring them, I could will them to disappear. That hasn’t happened yet.

I tug the sleeve of my sweater down, even though the ink is already covered. The symbol feels scratchy, as if rebelling against being hidden. Being inked is a blessing. A safety in the knowledge that someone will love, with fiery passion, resilience, and comforting strength. It is a promise that you are not alone: you just need to be found.

So what does it mean to have two tattoos? And why does it feel more like a curse than a blessing?