I am starting to think that my soulmate is like a star out of reach, never meant to fall my way.

The stars have always been there, twinkling in the night sky, teasing me with promises of the unknown. Promises that someone else is out there, that my soulmate exists.

My mother used to tell me that I would feel it, deep down in my bones. That when my soulmate bond snapped into place it would be this undeniable, overwhelming feeling of completeness. Like everything once lost was found.

But at twenty four, I have yet to feel that. Yet to feel anything even remotely close to it. I stand here, brush in hand, alone in my studio with only my paintings for company.

Night after night, I gaze out my window framed by ivy that glows faintly under the moon, searching the heavens for a sign, a spark that might ignite my soulmate bond. But the stars remain just that-distant, beautiful, unreachable. As does my soul's mate.

I am generally a positive person. I never let negative emotions dwell like they are tonight, but it is the anniversary of my brother's disappearance. This particular night always brings a flood of memories, a mixture of fondness and a sharp sting of loss that never fades. I feel so overwhelmed, like there is a weight on my chest. It would be nice to have someone to talk with, but I have no one.

I often wonder, what is missing? Is there a piece of me that is not quite right, a melody in my soul that is off-key? My friends have all found their matches, their lives now entwined with another's. They talk of a connection so deep, it is like two hearts beating as one.

And I, I paint. I paint the stars, the moon, the dreams that dance in my head. I pour my heart onto canvas, hoping, maybe foolishly, that my art will bridge the gap between my lonely soul and the one it seeks.

As the moon climbs higher, casting a silver glow across my studio, I whisper into the quiet, 'Where are you?' But the silence that follows is my only answer.

Maybe it is time to accept that some stars are meant to shine alone.

I dip the brush into the paint, adding more depth to the shadows. The shadows are always my favorite part. The scent of oil paint and turpentine hangs in the air.

My fingers, adorned with rings that softly hum with ancient magic, ache from gripping the handle too tightly. Unlike many in Shadow's End who are born with innate magical abilities, I rely on these rings for a semblance of power. They are my link to the magical world I paint, but not one I naturally possess. Each ring, a small artifact enchanted by skilled sorcerers, offers a whisper of the magic that eludes my grasp.

The brush shakes in my hand as I raise it to the canvas. A drop of paint falls, disrupting the perfect night sky I have painted. A tear threatens to escape.

I need to get a grip. This is not me. I am not someone who feels loneliness and self pity this heavily.

I look at the painting and cannot bring myself to paint over the spot, to cover up the evidence of my own imperfections. Instead, I turn away, walking towards the window, and press my forehead against the cool glass.

My reflection stares back at me, dark eyes filled with sadness, brown skin streaked with paint. I look like a work of art myself, a masterpiece in progress.

I press my forehead harder against the window, staring up at the moon. it is like a silent friend in the dark sky. I whisper to it, "Please, bring me my soul's mate." My voice is just a breath, but it feels heavy with hope.

I plea to the moon, to every star, to anything that may be listening. "I do not care who it is. I just do not want to be alone anymore." The words float up, joining the night.

It is a simple wish. A desperate one. But in this moment, it is all I have. Loneliness is a shadow that follows me, even in this room full of light and color.

Pulling back from the window, I glance at my unfinished painting. The stars I have painted seem to twinkle, almost as if they are listening. Maybe they are. Maybe they will bring me my soul's mate.

With a soft chuckle at the ridiculousness of the idea, I turn away, leaving my paints and brushes behind. Climbing the narrow wooden stairs to my loft bedroom, exhaustion begins to take over. The loft overlooks the studio, its railings adorned with hanging ivy that glows faintly in the dark.

My bed, nestled under a sloping roof, is a cozy cocoon of blankets and pillows. Strings of soft, luminescent orbs float above, casting a gentle, calming glow.

I slip into bed without bothering to wash off the paint - it is a part of me, just like the art that surrounds me. As I lie there, the night's stillness envelops the room, only broken by the distant call of a night owl and the gentle whisper of the wind through the trees outside.

In the quiet of my room, I cannot help but wonder if my soulmate is somewhere out there, thinking of me, too. Surely they must be.

Most people my age found their soul's mate when we were still in school. They said they knew instantly. It was like a feather light brush against something deep within them. It is something I have never felt.

Maybe my soul's mate lives far away? Unlikely. Most soulmates are born within a certain distance from each other.

Maybe my soul's mate died? No, surely I would have felt it. I know people, knew people, who is soulmates have died. They followed shortly after.

So what is the truth? Did my soul's mate never exist? Or, is there something wrong with me? I toss and turn, but no answers come to me.

Finally, exhaustion wins, and I drift off to sleep, dreaming of a world where stars fall and soulmates find each other.