Soul mate.

It’s such an overused phrase nowadays. Any random schmuck a girl finds on the street can be her ‘soul mate’, with no regard as to what it actually means.

A soul mate is the soul who complements yours flawlessly. It does not complete you. Anyone who is incomplete without another is undeserving of their soul mate.

Nor is it a strictly romantic term. Soul mates are partners through the ages, life after life after life, and sometimes a romance is just not meant to be between the two. The love the two share is deep that it cannot be classified by ‘romantic’ or ‘familial’ or ‘platonic’. Mere words cannot cover it.

I know all this. So why am I staring at the ocean now, contemplating my death?

The moment after my soul mate died, I felt this awful surge of grief for one that I did not even know, one who I had not met—or even seen. But once he was dead, I knew everything, as if God were teasing me by showing me the life we would have had together.

We would have met in college and married three days after graduation. We would have had two children, both girls. On his fortieth birthday, I would have surprised him with a trip back to his homeland of Japan, where I would have met his siblings and my nephews and nieces. Our love would have been so deep, so unbreakable, that we would lose a few friends in our early years together from jealousy.

Of course, that is what would have happened, if his father had not murdered him. He was jealous, oddly enough, of the love his grandfather showed him. His inheritance from his grandfather’s death would have paid for college, where he would have met me, and so on.

I know that I am not half a person without him. But the sorrow I feel is so great, I cannot imagine it ever fading away. It won’t. If I should live, that will be my curse until I die, old, forgotten, and lonely. If I should live, I would drop out of college at the start of my senior year, marry an abusive man, breed two unhappy children, and estrange myself from my family in the process.

I can’t bear the thought of that any more than I can bear the thought of life without my soul mate. I just can’t do it.

I’m standing up now. The sun is just starting to rise; the tourists will be here within the hour. I need to decide now. Do I end my life and cause grief for my loved ones, or do I try to endure?

I need to be selfish, if just this once.

I walk forward until water is lapping at my toes, clear and cool and sparkling. I draw out the knife from my belt. How funny that I choose the ocean to be my death bed, yet I am too frightened to drown myself.

The waves recede. I inspect the blade. Perfectly sharp. I touch the tip to the soft area just below my ribs. They will wonder why this sad white girl killed herself while dressed in white silk kimono, a single cherry blossom in curly brown hair.

She was being poetic, they’ll say. They won’t understand that I am doing this as a tribute to him. It’s similar to what I would have married him in. White for my wedding traditions, the kimono for his.

Water tickles my bare toes again. I heard once that the color white signified joy in weddings, not purity. It’s fitting, I decide, that such joy is soon to be stained, just as my own was.

The water recedes again. I take several deep, steadying breaths. It will be less painful if I am calm.

Even though my heart refuses to stop beating so hard, it doesn’t hurt as I thought it would. It aches, yes, but my mind is elsewhere. I savor my last few moments of my presence on Earth. I stare at the blood that stains my kimono and the perfect white sand around me. The smell of copper rises to mix with that of salt. I fall to my knees, the ocean embracing me. As I shut my eyes and meet the ground, I see a gold-toned hand reaching for me. I grasp it, allowing myself to be taken somewhere else. Somewhere better.

You didn’t have to do that, my mate says, still in the body of his last reincarnation.

Yes, I did, and you know it perfectly well, my dear, I inform him sternly. He loses his disapproving frown and we embrace.

I told you the ‘romantic’ thing rarely works out, I say playfully. But do you listen? Nooo!

He grins. Already our appearances are melting away. Okay, you were right. Ready to jump back in the circuit?

Naah. Let’s spend a bit of time together before we do the whole womb thing again.

We could try being twins this time, he offers. I nod.

Yes, but still. Let’s enjoy being incorporeal for a little while.

Sure.