Red String

there is an old chinese legend

about an elderly woman

who walks through the world at night

tying red string around people’s pinkies.

at the other end of each thread

is the person they are destined to meet.

no matter the distance.

no matter the time.

no matter the chaos in between.

i look at my own hands sometimes

and imagine the string.

thin. invisible.

stretched across cities

across versions of myself

across mistakes i have not stopped replaying.

who is tied to the end of mine?

what kind of heart holds the other side?

are they soft?

are they patient?

are they someone who will understand

why i overthink silence

why i memorize tone

why i hesitate before jumping?

will i be happy when our threads finally pull tight?

or will it feel familiar

like something i almost recognized once?

and sometimes the thought unsettles me

what if i have already met them?

what if our strings brushed

and i called it coincidence?

what if i felt the pull

and mistook it for fear?

what if destiny stood in front of me

and i chose comfort instead?

i wonder if the string ever tangles

if it ever waits

if it ever forgives hesitation.

i wonder

if it is still pulling.