How do you measure a year?
Request: soulmate au- when you reach 18, you stop ageing until you meet your soulmate.
Pairing: Anthony Ramos x reader
Warnings: mild angst
Word count: 2,797
A/N: welcome to day one of the @hamwriters writeathon (aka AU time)! I’m posting a fic a day this week (woah) and I am so excited pls come and scream with me. endless thanks to @gratitudejoyandsorrow for proofreading and being awesome ^-^
schedule for the rest of this week here
You celebrated your eighteenth birthday in seventeen eighty three. Your parents, ageing together for twenty years, looked on fondly as you accepted their gift- new writing supplies and a diary.
“Write about your life,” your father suggested. He had fought in the revolutionary war alongside Washington himself, meeting your mother when he had returned from to New York to begin his life anew.
“Thank you,” you told him. Your best friend Theodosia had already found her soulmate and, despite you being born before her, she now looked older.
You carefully signed your name on the inside cover. The ink shone on the page and you decided you would write a letter to your soulmate each and every day until you met them.
You pushed your way through the streets of New York, shivering in the cold. Having invested your money well over the last two hundred and thirty years, you didn’t have to work full time, and could afford to spend your time in coffee shops, writing.
You were on your two hundredth journal. You always carried your first one and your latest one with you- the beginning and the end of your life, you reasoned. You had written over eighty-five thousand letters to your soulmate.
And you had never met them.
A couple of times you had tried to find someone else- someone who had lost their soulmate or who hadn’t found them yet either, but it never worked. If they had known their soulmate, you could never be enough.
You slipped into your current favourite coffee shop- a two story independent shop that was a stones throw away from Broadway. You wondered idly if there was a new show you could go and see, and decided to head over to take a look later.
There was a new barista at the counter. Her hair a golden-brown that caught the light as she chatted animatedly to her coworkers. You slid into your favourite seat - a cushy armchair by the window - and pulled out your journal.
You opened it to a fresh page and pulled out a pen and a paperclip. You wrote the date above the lines and fished around in your jacket pocket for a moment before finding your ticket to an art exhibition you had been to. You clipped it to the page and started to write.
New York is so different now- so busy, so tall, and so alive. It’s no longer the city I grew up in, but I suppose the world moves on even if I don’t.
There was an exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art about soulmates - I saved my ticket. They had photos of people with their soulmates, dressed in the clothing of the era they were born in. The kind of thing they might have worn on their eighteenth birthday.
Couples from all over the world - every nationality, every gender, every sexuality. Little placards letting you know how long they’d waited for each other. People born during World War One - a horrible time - meeting their soulmates today.
It gave me hope that I might still find you.
You closed your journal as the waitress brought over your coffee, setting it down with a smile. You thanked her.
Over two centuries you had met people who had waited for their soulmates for just as long as you had. Many of them had watched their families die, as you had, and struggled to keep faith. Every one of them had found their soulmates eventually and promised you it was worth it.
So you waited.