Soul mates: Reality or torture device?

© Colonne / Banksy, Kissing Coppers, 2005 / Egon Schiele, L'étreinte, 1917 / Gustav Klimt, Le Baiser, 1908 / Les amoureux, 1916 de Marc Chagall

I’ve always had a thing for love stories. There’s something enchanting about the idea that, out there in the universe, is one single person made just for you, woven into your destiny like a well-worn sweater. By the time I was thirteen, I was addicted. Romances, mysteries with a sprinkle of forbidden love, even fantasy worlds where magical bonds transcended the boundaries of time and space—all of them promised me that love was not only real, but predetermined. And the kicker? They always seemed to meet by nineteen, tops, staring starry-eyed into each other’s futures, while I was still trying to figure out my own.

By now, I’ve read enough romance novels to fill a small library, each one reassuring me of this cozy notion of a soulmate. But there’s a funny thing that happens when you devour enough fairy tales. At some point, you look up from your book, glance around the café, and start wondering if the universe forgot to write you into the script. I’d been holding on to the soulmate story like a life raft, imagining that my "one" was somewhere out there, perhaps across town or even across the world. Meanwhile, every guy I met felt like the literary equivalent of a plot twist—nice, intriguing, but never quite the end game. So, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, the question hit me: What if I’ve been fooled all along? What if “soul mates” is just the universe’s version of a limited-edition fantasy, not a love guarantee?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not cynical enough to deny the thrill of a magnetic connection, those head-spinning, goosebump-inducing encounters that feel like a cosmic gift. But is that the same as a soulmate? Sometimes, I wonder if soul mates are just a product of narrative convenience—a plot device designed to simplify love for the sake of a satisfying ending. Because in the real world, love is anything but simple.

Think about it. How many times have we met someone who felt like “the one,” only to realize they were, at best, “the one until spring”? Relationships, unlike the pages of a book, are messy, unpredictable, and often far less romantic than we’d like. Yet, we cling to the idea of a soulmate as if it’s a foolproof love insurance policy. As if destiny itself owes us a happily-ever-after.

Maybe, just maybe, our attachment to soul mates is a way of protecting ourselves from the risks of real, fallible, sometimes painful love. A soulmate doesn’t disappoint, doesn’t leave the cap off the toothpaste, or ghost you after a date. A soulmate—at least in the narrative we tell ourselves—is flawless, the missing puzzle piece that just clicks into place. And who wouldn’t want that? But here’s the irony: love, real love, is made up of quirks, imperfections, and a hell of a lot of patience. Maybe soul mates exist, or maybe it’s a way of romanticizing the chaos we call dating. Perhaps the person you’re meant to be with isn’t someone destiny has predestined, but someone you stumble upon through trial, error, and a little bit of magic in the mundane.

So, what if we gave up on the soulmate storyline and embraced love with a little less destiny and a little more curiosity? If soul mates are real, then they’ll show up, baggage and all. And if they aren’t, maybe it’s not such a bad thing. Because the beauty of love is that it’s imperfect, and it’s not a promise; it’s a choice—one we make over and over again, even on the days when the pages don’t quite turn as we’d hoped.

In the meantime, I’ll keep reading, keep dating, and keep believing that love, in all its messy glory, doesn’t need to be scripted to be real. And if I happen to find my “soul mate” somewhere along the way, I’ll make sure to check if he’s just another character in my story—or if he’s the author of his own.

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