MJ hates the word soulmate more than anything in the world.

It seems to be all anyone ever talks about, whether it's on television or being gossiped about in the girls' bathroom at school. Ignoring E! New's debate over whether or not celebrity couples are really soulmates is easy, of course. But it's a bit harder to avoid now that they are juniors at Midtown.

They've done it, gotten halfway through high school, and now everyone is starting to think about their futures. Most parents, when talking about soulmates, advise their children to wait until they are at least juniors to attempt contact. It's the best time, many scientists studying the phenomenon agree- 76% of successful soulmate relationships were initiated somewhere between 17-19 years of age.

MJ refuses to allow herself to become another statistic.

As MJ walks down the hallways of Midtown the same way she does every day, everything about her seems to emphasize this. Her hair is pulled back into the same messy ponytail it always is, allowing wisps of hair to escape and frame her face in a way that makes her appear like some sort of survivor of an explosion. Her clothing is clearly chosen for convenience, not fashion, and her head is buried in a copy Tale of Two Cities.

MJ likes the French Revolution. Sure, it didn't really get anybody anywhere, but it was a release of tension- of suppressed rage and injustice running their course, of new ideas and theories battling in a clash of noise. Would she like it to happen again? Of course not. But she cannot deny that she finds it fascinating.

It is while she is turning a page that she notices it. Her skin tingles with warmth, just for a moment, and then she notices a splotch of dark blue ink along the heel of her hand. MJ's eyes narrow as she bites her lips and swipes at it, but the persistent smudge does not budge.

It must have been from her late night drawing, she tells herself. Her hands are always covered in ink after that. She does not remind herself of the fact that she scrubs her hands clean afterward, every time, determined not to leave a trace.

As far as MJ is concerned, she does not have a soulmate.

MJ gives up on the smudge and turns back to the book, trying to focus on the words. But her rhythm has been interrupted, and as MJ walks into her chemistry classroom she finally closes her book with a frustrated groan under her breath.

MJ plops into her seat in the back of the room, reaching for a sketchbook from her bag. She realizes that the little sound she made has caused most of the room to fall silent and that most pairs of eyes are on her.

"You look like hell," comments Flash Thompson, using the signature smirk that MJ would love dearly to smack off.

"Charming," MJ deadpans as she flips through the pages of her sketchbook, finding the newest bank page and beginning to run a pencil along the outline of a figure only she can see.

"Late night?" There are little titters of laughter throughout the room as he says this in a suggestive voice.

MJ does not look up, only reaches for a charcoal liner with an impassive face. "Yeah, spent it with your mother," she hums, and then the laughter is louder.

"Oh, dang," crows Ned Leeds, just another of Midtown's many students. She does not allow herself to think about the fact that Leeds is best friends with Peter Parker, the kid that MJ cannot seem to shake from her head.

"Dude, you just got roasted," Parker chimes in. MJ looks up then, and she is glad she did, just a bit. His eyes are shining as he glances between Leeds and MJ, and for a moment she feels like she is a part of something with the two nerds from her decathlon team.

"Shut it, Penis," Thompson snaps, shooting MJ a glare that she does not miss even though she is drawing.

Ned and Peter shut their mouths happily but their eyes are still filled with glee.

Their Chem teacher enters the room, and the moment is mostly forgotten. To anyone who knows MJ, she would not look any different than usual as she reaches for the Bunsen burner. But there is the ghost of a grin on her lips, and she does not feel the need to brush hair into her eyes to hide the pleasure in them.

By the time gym rolls around, MJ has successfully managed to become immersed in her book again. Gym is one of the better parts of her day because normally Coach Wilson will let her read as long as she pretends she is doing the exercises. When MJ looks up from her book to respond to her name for attendance, however, she is surprised by the serious look on Wilson's face.

"Book away, Michelle," Wilson instructs as he turns down to his clipboard.

MJ raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sorry. Has hell frozen over?"

Wilson gives a tired sigh as he looks back up at her, raising his own eyebrows in return. "Doesn't feel cold in this school, so I'm assuming not. But we're watching a video today, and I want you to pay attention."

"But it's health. If you want, I can correctly label every single bone in the human body, if someone would volunteer for a live demonstration."

The quip that would normally get a crack of a grin out of the Coach does not work today. "It isn't anatomy. Today, it's soulmates."

MJ does not even deign to reply to that, only shoots him an unimpressed glare.

"It's important that you all actually understand what you're getting yourselves into with this, and I think that the video could be really helpful," Wilson says firmly.

"Oh, if we're criticizing the nuclear family today, I can recommend an excellent resource-"

"This is one of the few topics covered in this class that I actually think is serious," Wilson hums.

"What, like you've got a soulmate?" snickers Flash. MJ rolls her eyes and returns to her book, opening it on the bench beside her and attempting to read concealed from view.

"I do, actually, and he's the only thing that gets me through dealing with you little assholes. So book away, Michelle, and let's continue."

The rest of the class is spent staring at a screen with Captain America's face plastered on it. Parker and Leeds are whispering about something again, the way that they always do, but MJ can't even pluck up the interest to listen through her annoyance.

Instead, she just stares at the grainy TV screen that is telling her the importance of a good impression and resolves even more firmly than ever that she will never give up control to fate, the asshole with a sadistic sense of humor.

It was later that night when it happened.

MJ had just arrived home from school and work, and she was thoroughly worn out. The day had been a long one at the coffee shop, and after dealing with entitled customers for a double-shift, MJ really just wanted some tea and sleep.

She had just finished showering and changing into an old pair of shorts and a tank top when she started to feel a warmth creeping up her arm. MJ froze, hardly daring to look down at it. She had just been about to turn off the lights and slip into bed, but instead, she looked down at her arm.

Are you there?

MJ felt a shuddering gasp leave her lips as a finger traced the blue ink, the same as the smudge that had been on the heel of her hand this morning. The writing was a bit messy, but clearly, the writer had made an effort to keep it neat.

MJ could not help it- her heart was racing, and she was glancing around her empty room like a crazy person as if the person who had written on her arm could be there. But they were not, and MJ was alone in the attic of a tiny apartment in Queens.

What on earth was she supposed to do?

MJ was torn now. Should she ignore it and let the person think that their soulmate was dead, grab a pen and write a nice message telling the writer to leave her the hell alone?

Should she tell them yes, she was here?

MJ shook her head and looked at the mattress on the floor of the attic that was her bed. It had no sheets, only an old blanket on top, and her clothing was stuffed into an old dresser if it was not strewn about on the floor. There was little else in the room other than a single bookshelf that was practically groaning beneath the weight of piles of books, most of which were salvaged from the rubbish bin behind the library.

It would be a bit of a disappointment to this person, whoever they were if she wrote back. MJ did not want a soulmate, so why lead the other person on? Maybe they would just think that they did not have one, or that theirs had died at a very young age. MJ ignored the bag of felt-tips on the floor by her bed as she climbed onto the mattress, flipping off the light with the switch by her bed.

She had just rolled over to fall asleep when she felt the warm tingling again, and a frustrated groan left MJ's lips. She pulled her arm out from underneath the covers and read from the light of streetlamps that came through the skylight.

I know you're here. My hands were covered in ink yesterday night.

MJ felt her face heat up. Whoever her jerk of a soulmate was, they had taken the only appealing option she had by recognizing that she existed. She would have to be more careful when she was drawing, she reminded herself.

MJ gripped one of the fine-liners from the bag on the floor and sat up against the wall of the attic, writing by the orange light in an angry scrawl.

Fantastic. If you're done playing Sherlock, I am trying to sleep.

MJ shoved the cap back onto the fineliner, and slammed it down on the windowsill with much more force than was necessary. It wasn't the pen's fault, it wasn't even her soulmate's fault. But MJ did not like the way that her heart was pounding, the way that she was supposed to just decide to trust some random person she did not even know.

The tingling returned, and MJ was about to write a letter filled with choice-words that was long enough to give them both ink poisoning, but then she looked down at her arm.

It was one word, clearly written with a hesitant hand.

Goodnight.