Noah Hale

The apartment unlocks itself the second my wristband syncs. A soft chime sounds—pleasant, reassuring, engineered to calm. "Welcome to SoulSync Housing. Your pairing is now active." the voice states. I stand there with my suitcase still in my hand, staring at the door like it might explain itself. This is it. The milestone everyone talks about. Enrollment, match confirmation, key access—all rolled into one seamless moment. My parents cried when I told them my pairing window opened. My friends threw me a countdown dinner. Love, according to the system, is supposed to feel like relief. The apartment is… nice. Too nice for a single-income unit. Open-plan, sunlight, a second bedroom that already knows it isn’t mine alone. Shared housing is standard during the six-month bonding period—cost-efficient, compliance-tested, socially normalized. 'Intimacy through proximity', the program literature calls it. I roll my suitcase inside and the door seals behind me. “That was fast.” I spin. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter like he belongs there, jacket slung over a chair, expression unreadable. My wristband vibrates hard enough to be unmistakable. "Soulmate confirmed." the voice chimes. This—him—was not what I expected.