Monologue About Tattoos

It's staring at me. I swear it is. Or maybe I'm staring at it. Probably more likely the second one.
It's just sitting there, on my forearm next to the crease of my elbow. It's beautiful in a way, elegant swirling lines that would take even the most accomplished calligraphers hours of painstaking work. It looks a bit like a tattoo. If only it was something that simple.
Instead it's my destiny.
I've known this was coming for ages. I knew I'd have to be ready for it.
I'm not ready.
This process has been around forever, or as close to that as possible. It shouldn't be scary. But it's terrifying. My whole future is now dictated by three digits on my arm. 273. I've always disliked the number 273. It's a stupid number. And now it's my stupid number.

It appears on their arm around the time of their fifteenth birthday. I knew it was going to happen to me soon enough, but it doesn't make it actually happening any easier. It means I need to go and register so I can find them, my soulmate, the unfortunate individual who's also got 273 on their arm.
It's supposed to be great. It's falling in love made easy, what's not to love? Apart from everything. I hate it. I hate that people think this number knows who they fall in love with better than their own heart. It's only 3 silly digits.
My mother is calling me, reminding me I have work soon. I should tell her. I should tell everyone. I should register and find my soulmate. I totally should not grab the skin-tone face paint from my drawer and use it to cover up my number so no-one knows it's even there and yet it's exactly what I do before shouting a hasty goodbye and heading to the palace.
I like my job, I really do. It's an honour to work in the royal palace, even if I am only a cleaning maid. My working day starts like normal, with clothes being hurled at my head.
"I want these cleaned so I can wear them to the ball tonight" the pompous voice of the prince comes from where he's lounging on his bed