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Independence is the ultimate maturing sign – it's freedom, it's adulthood, it's responsibility. So, asking for help is considered regression usually; how can you possibly need help if you're independent?

That's how I was brought up anyway; you don't ask for help, Amelia. When you reach adulthood, you don't have people to hold your hand anymore. My parents had always been strong believers in reaching eighteen, doing everything in your power to go and find your Fated Person and then making your way in the world.

Luckily, I've always had Owen and his parents to guide me when they didn't. It isn't like they're bad parents. They're just focused on what they think I should be, whereas Owen's parents are more of the be who you want to be type of parents.

When I hand Joshua my notes for the essay, I feel both proud of myself and embarrassed. Asking for help is a downfall, yet at the same time, I'm proud of asking him. A nineteen-year-old woman feeling proud of getting the bravery to ask for help sounds ridiculous.

I watch his eyes stare at my wrist as I hand it to him.

My breath hitches. I feel this overwhelming urge to retract it when his eyes linger longer than I find appropriate. But weirdly, I feel this dizzying pull, like I need to see his tattoo.

"I... I'm happy to help you make some more notes," Joshua says.

I watch him take the paper, his eyes slightly still looking at me and my wrist. My head spaces out, the noise of the shop drowning out until all I can hear is Joshua's breathing and humming over the questions on the paper.

Why does this feel like a sign?

This is still the man who failed me last semester. If he guides me in the right direction, then surely, I'll pass with flying colours. I just need to smile, nod and do as he says. But he still makes me annoyed to look at.

"I... so one of the questions here relates to Marxism and feminism—" He stops speaking and looks at his laptop. He seems to be tripping up on the terms, and it sounds unlike the confident, arrogant man he does in lectures.

How did I go from straight-As to failing? It's literally all thanks to this guy, who can't even get his words out right now.

He looks at the paper again and I can see his hands shaking.

There's nothing in this room right now apart from me and him, which I know isn't real, but it feels real.

The compulsion to ask him why he keeps looking at my wrist is getting higher and higher.

"Can I ask you something unrelated?" I ask.

"Sure," he says.

"You keep staring at my Knot," I mention. "Why is that?"

He sighs deeply and puts the paper on the desk in front of him before our eyes meet over the table.

"I... it just caught my eye. Most people I know tend to cover their Art up, that's all," he says. "Especially with it being the tail end of winter."

He's lying, I can tell. Something in my veins yells like a heavy metal screamo song as he speaks, telling me how much of a lie he's spinning me.

It's the weirdest thing.

I know when Owen lies to me because his nose flares and he gives me the tiniest of smirks as he does. But since we found out we were Fated People a year ago, there's been this little part of me that feels strange when he lies.

But when Joshua tells me he's not looking at my wrist, my brain screams, throbs, and bile swishes around my stomach.

What I feel when Owen lies is not this strong.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Cam—Amelia," he says, quickly changing his mind when he says 'Cam'.

I arch an eyebrow. "What did you just call me?"

"Sorry, Amelia. I'm going to be honest with you, I'm feeling out of sorts right now. It might be better if you could email these notes to me and I'll respond when I'm feeling better," Joshua says.

He hands me back the piece of paper using his left hand.

My eyes zone in on his wrist. The Knot is visible from under the cuff of his shirt.

"I... can I...?" I stammer.

This can't be...

I know the way that knot goes, and my whole head spins like a washing machine stuck on its spin cycle as my eyes zone in.

His eyes meet mine, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't move his wrist either.

I take the paper back and he pulls the cuff of his sleeve up so I can see the whole Knot Art.

"No fucking way."

"Can I...?" he whispers. "I... noticed it just now."

I say nothing more but show my wrist to him.

The flooding, the mental clouds defog, the way my breath deepens. It's the same way I felt when I first saw Owen after my Ceremony. Because Owen is my Fated One. His name was on my baby blue card.

Not this arrogant arsehole who fails my work for no reason.

But I can't deny this tiny moment with Joshua is weird. This isn't the usual him. I can't deny this moment is like a fragile China plate. I stare at the very fine lines on his tattoo, the same ones I know so damn well because I've studied them on my wrist and on Owen's wrist.

"How is this... how is this possible?" I whisper.

"I don't know," he whispers. My brain hums. He's lying.

"You do, you're lying to me," I say.

"We're Fated Ones," he says.

"No, no, no. I have my Fated One." I whip my wrist away, wishing I'd put a cardigan on or something. I shake my head. "Yours must be wrong."

"Amelia." The way he says my name is wrong; it's almost a plead. "You know what happens—"

"No. I have my Fated Person. I'm engaged to him. This isn't possible."

I grab my bag and stand from the chair.

"Camellia." He says it so softly, I almost miss it. My blood swooshes from my face because it sounds right.

But it's wrong.

"No."

"Amelia!"

The bell on the shop's door jingles so hard as I rush out, I wouldn't be surprised if it falls off. But I don't stop to check.

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Independence in this life means nothing. People talk about the independence of being an adult: getting a job you want, living in the house you want, having children, paying bills. But it's all an illusion when you think about it.

You pay bills to have what should be a free human right, you work a job to make money to pay the bills and buy the house, survive. You have children because it's an animalistic instinct. You don't really have independence. It's an illusion, a construct. The government make you have responsibilities, you need to pay taxes and bills, they even give you the illusion of choice over your soulmate. They choose your Fated One, however they do it. It's chosen before you're even born, that's all laymen know about it.

I hope the government can't track my internet movements, but I have no time for that.

'Can you have two Fated Ones?'

Pages and pages of random books on some writing site written about love triangles with two Fated Ones. A few dead ends with the question asked but no answers.

I type 'Fated One 3 people' into the search bar. The same websites come up, but finally, one I haven't clicked on yet: a small blog.

Part of me doesn't want to click on it, but I know I need to.

'Do you think there can be more than one Fated Person? Surely, it's not that impossible. There are seven billion people on this planet – KnotofFate89.'

'They always give you one name, though. You only get one Knot and one name – FatedNot98.'

'Sure, but there are probably 700 Andrew's in Scotland, so how do I know? – NoFate.'

'Because you get the magic feeling when you're near the right person. It's real – FatedNot98.'

'But what if it was possible? What would happen? Throuple? What about if one person is almost rogue. A man has two Fated People, but they each only have him? Is one of them destined to never be Fated? What if he decided to marry one but keep the other as a lover? – KnotofFate89.'

It just keeps going around in circles with no clear answer.

It has to be possible because I saw his tattoo. I felt his Knot Art. There are plenty of stories and anecdotes about these weird feelings when you're near your Fated One. The effects of being near them make you dizzy, your heart hammer, all the cliché true love thing. I remember hearing some of them say their first kiss after finding their Fated One is this Disney type feeling.

I never had that with Owen because I kissed him first when we were thirteen. He's the only person I've ever kissed, ever slept with, done anything with.

My phone buzzes.

"Hello?" I answer.

"Camellia, where'd you go? You ran out like a bloody storm, what happened? Wasn't that guy your tutor?" Owen asks.

"Yeah, I... uh... I just... I'm not feeling that great, and I needed to get out of there. I'm okay now, I just needed to come home and get some painkillers I think," I lie. How do I even tell him something like this? I don't even know what it means myself.

"I can come home early if you want," he says.

"No, it's fine. Just... do what you need to do. I'll nap it off. I have assignment work to do anyway, so if I'm feeling better, I'll get that done. I love you," I say.

He chuckles down the line. "I love you too. Get some rest. If you need me, just phone me and I'll come home."

"Thank you. Love you."

"Love you too, my Camellia," he says before hanging up.

My email pings. Joshua.

'Hello Amelia, I'd like to discuss where we left off earlier. I'm free before our lecture tomorrow. I can also help with those questions you have, which you left with me, so I've highlighted what I can below. Hope this helps. Joshua.'

He's left me with a bunch of answers for the assignment, but we both know the bottom line of his email.

I still hate him. He's an arrogant know it all. I remember the notes on my assignment: 'unfortunately, you misconstrued the question, Amelia. Fail.' When I went to see him afterwards, he said I didn't even answer the question. I did, I know I did, but he still wouldn't change it.

Yet the seeping images of potentially kissing him, touching that Knot Art are filling my mind like an unwanted snowstorm. I can't help it, because that Knot matches mine, and it's an uncontrollable emotion to want to kiss him, just like you feel hatred and happiness.

It's moments like these where although I'm not sure I believe in the stupid Fated Ones and whatever that I find myself thinking there must be a little magic to it. I was just lucky to know my Fated One since I was literally born. There must be a sprinkle of fairy dust or magic or supernatural something to it because I've always hated Joshua, it's only since I saw that tattoo that I've been having these images.

The bile swims up my throat, and I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up.

Is this a side effect? Is this because I've got two Fated Ones and I shouldn't? Am I broken? Did the Knotsman Artist get one of our knots wrong? Is Owen's wrong, is Joshua's? Is my Knot wrong?

It's rare, but there have been stories of same-sex Knots. They're rare because they can't physically produce children in the world, but there are some. I wonder if Owen and Josh are meant to be Fated, and not me.

I do the first thing I can think of and dial Sam's number.

"Amelia, girl, you okay?" she answers.

"Yeah, I, uh, well, not really. I... I have an issue. You free?" I ask.

She must hear the urgency in my tone. "Sure. I'm already like near your place, on the way into town. Shall I grab us a coffee and come round?"

"Yeah, that'd be great," I answer.

"I'll be fifteen minutes," she says.

We say goodbye and hang up. I stare at my left wrist, the black, white, and grey ink all blending into one almost. I know every single stroke of this thing, every twist and line, where it curves and folds, every shade. I burnt it into my brain almost as soon as it was finished and healed.

There's no mistake; I know that design. Joshua Anderson's Knot is the same.

My email pings again. I have a different tone for my university email, so I know it's Josh before I even pick it up, though I hope it's Anne, my other tutor about next week's seminar.

It's Josh, as I thought. My wrist burns a little, and I wonder if it's because he's thinking about me – he sent me an email so I'm clearly on his mind.

Does he know he's on mine?

'Amelia, please reply with an answer. I am free all this afternoon if you still need help. I'd like to continue our earlier discussion with a matter of urgency. Thanks, Joshua.'

The burning is like an ache when you've used your wrist too much to write or type. Is this Joshua, or Owen? Or neither?

Am I going to combust and explode, or melt like I'm in a fire? Will I turn to ash and be preserved forever like they were in Pompeii? Can that even happen or is that some conspiracy theory?

Is this a conspiracy theory turned real? Did Owen or Josh change their Knot art, and within days the government will come for me, or them, and send us all into jail? Force me to choose or uncover my real Fated One?

Will I have to marry the man I hate?

I send back an email, despite my mind telling me not to. I realise far too quickly that this is the effect of feeling the truth on my wrist. 'Joshua, I will meet you before the lecture tomorrow. Amelia.'

The doorbell goes off, and I thank whatever is up there or down there, or somewhere in the stratosphere, that Sam's arrival means I can stop overthinking and have someone to talk to about this craziness.

As much as I don't want to believe this, I cannot deny the pure effects this is having on my body.

Independence is an illusion, after all. I might think I'm free to study what I like, work how I like and be friends with who I like, but the way my body reacts to this is clearly a sign that I've been disillusioned in my perceived freedom.

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