· · ──── ·𖥸· ──── · ·

Knots were something that never interested me until I was eighteen. Macrame, I learnt it was called: the art of tying knots. I used to snort at it: why would anyone want to spend their life making knots in things when you spend the other half of your life untying them?

Then, of course, I turned eighteen and got branded with this stupid knot tattoo. It's always been fated; it's just the way it is, my parents used to tell me.

I knew the day was coming; we got told about The Knot Day when we were in school. The day you turned eighteen, a Knotsman Artist attended the ceremony, tattooed your design on your wrist for everyone to see and celebrate. You get given a folded piece of blue card with the name of the person who holds your matching design. You only get a first name and location when you get the design. Before your eighteenth birthday, you can be with who you like.

Of course, I remember the lesson when I was twelve: on your eighteenth birthday, you get the Knot on your wrist. Only the Knotsman Artist knows this design, it's been assigned to you since birth. In the whole world, there are only two people with the same intricate design, and those two people are soulmates, forever destined to be together. The perfect match, the teacher called them. You cannot change your design; you cannot change your Fated Person. Some people may never find them. But whatever happens, that is your soulmate by legal law, by moral law, and you cannot change it, or there are consequences.

I remember holding Owen's hand that day. Every day since I felt sick to my stomach wondering if we would have the same design; we were destiny. He was my destiny.

The day he got his Knot, I stared at it, etched the design clearly into my brain before he showed me his piece of card: Amelia. England.

Though we kissed and celebrated, I still wasn't convinced until I saw the same design on my wrist a week later. I don't think I would have ever been convinced until I had my form of evidence.

Then my Knot Day came.

I got drunk on wine and champagne, sang breakup songs at the top of my lungs just in case by some spin of fate, his card was another Amelia from England.

Then I received my Knot.

The moment I stared at the design; the alcohol evaporated from my system. The moment I read Owen, England on my little baby blue coloured card, I could've kissed the Fates that be.

The moment we compared tattoos, we grinned, cheered that we'd been right since we were five, and kissed each other until we didn't know what was real anymore. He proposed the very next morning, and just like that, the world made sense.

I'd heard horror stories, stories of people relocating and never finding their Fated Person. I'd heard so many stories of people being Fated but never falling in love; destined to be miserable forever. But that was the way life was, is and always will be.

You have your tethered pair, and that's it.

I'd always wondered what happened when things went wrong, but on my searches in the early hours in the weeks leading up to my Knot Day, I'd found nothing about mistakes or changing design. I'd never heard of someone rebelling; I couldn't find a thing. I stumbled on some searches on people asking if you could have two designs, if you could rebel, cover the tattoo, or manipulate and change your name to make a new pair, but everything I found said nothing could be done. You have your person, and that was that.

Of course, some people rejected the concept, rebelled, but it was all rumours and hearsay; the government kept that side of the system silent and hidden.

It didn't matter to me, because it never ended up being significant, anyway. My Fated Person was the man I loved since I was old enough to know what love was, the man I would always love.

Until the Knot did start being significant.

· · ──── ·𖥸· ──── · ·