“I found my best friend,” Mark said, triumphantly showing me a picture of a mark on someone’s skin that matched the one on his wrist.

“Great,” I said. “Happy for you.”

The truth was I didn’t really care. I was destined to be alone. Everyone came to me with news of finding the best friend they were destined for.

Everyone on their 16th birthday got a mark on their wrist. It was engraved into their skin overnight, like a constant curse they had to carry all their life. A reminder that the people they grew up believing would be their friends forever weren’t really all that important.

On my 16th birthday, I woke up with the same wrist I had always had. Bare and void of emotion like I had grown to be.

After Mark left, I decided to go out and have a drink. It was the only time I could escape and socialise and be myself. Yes, I was destined to be alone. But I also didn’t deserve this type of isolation.

I ordered my drink - a White Russian, as was customary when I went out to drink - and stood waiting for them to pour my drink. As I stood back to glance around and spot somewhere to sit, I bumped into a girl walking past with a drink in hand.

“Sorry,” I said, stepping back to let her past.

She smiled at me. I looked down at her wrist, out of finding out what type of mark she had. It was a habit I had developed, because I thought it was funny to see what kind of person these people would end up being best friends with.

She had no mark. And, with a brief smile, she walked away.