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.