Have you ever wondered what it'd be like to see how someone really feels about someone else?
Kind of cool, right?
Yeah.
Well—believe it or not, I can.
Threads.
Thin, glowing strings. Tied like ribbons between people's hands. They shift in color depending on what someone feels. Gold for love. Red for hate. White for deep friendship.Pale blue for grief or sadness. Each emotion, its own thread.
But here's the thing—
They don't show up all the time.
Only when it's too much.When a person's feelings are too strong to hide.When someone's about to break, or confess, or scream.That's when the threads appear—clear as sunlight, impossible to ignore.
Not everyone knows.I don't exactly go around telling people I see their emotions explode like fireworks.
But Cael knows.Of course he does.
He's the only person I've ever told.The only person who never flinched.
Also the only person who annoys me on a deeply spiritual level.
Because in all the time I've known him, I've never seen a single thread tied to him.Not one.
I've seen threads spark between strangers on a train.Enemies mid-fight.Friends laughing too hard.But Cael?
Nothing.
Not toward me. Not toward anyone.
And yeah, I try not to overthink it.But it's Cael.
Of course I overthink it.
"Thinking too loud again," Cael mutters as he slides into the chair beside mine.
I don't flinch. Don't look up.Just tap my pen on the side of my notebook. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
We're half an hour into one of our subjects. I already forgot which one. It doesn't matter—we're both here, which is rare enough.
The room's too cold. The lights flicker sometimes. Someone two rows ahead is watching a game on silent. Someone else is asleep with their face half-smashed into their notes.
Cael props his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand, half-bored, half-amused. Like he's watching a low-budget sitcom only he finds funny.
He taps my pen with his own. "Anyone lighting up?"
I glance around.Nothing.
"Dead room," I whisper. "Everyone's too sleep-deprived to feel anything."
"Damn." He leans back, kicks at the leg of my chair. "I was hoping for a red thread or two. Stir the pot."
"You just like watching people lose it."
"Correction: I like watching people admit they've already lost it."
I snort.
I don't hate what I can do.It's not some tragic curse.It just… is.
A part of me, like the mole on my collarbone or my inability to wake up on time.
Most of the time, it's quiet.
Until it isn't.
Until someone emotions are too hard.Or breaks in a way no one else can see.
That's when the threads appear.Tied between them like fate trying too hard to make itself known.
I take the long way home.Not because I need to.But… vibes.
The main road's all noise and exhaust. This side street? Quiet. Cracked. Smells like wet laundry and fried food. The kind of place where secrets don't echo so loud.
Then I hear it.
Not yelling—not yet. Just voices stretched thin, like rubber bands right before they snap.
I slow down.
Two people stand by a rusted gate. Lovers, probably. Once.
A girl clutches her bag to her chest. The guy gestures too wide. Too sharp.
Then I see it—One thread between them. Red. Jagged. Flickering.Hate wrapped in love. Or maybe love twisted into hate. Sometimes it's hard to tell.
She says something low.He yells.
She throws a bottle. It hits the ground, shatters.He flinches like it struck his ribs instead of concrete.
The thread screams.Then snaps.Not clean. Like a whip cracking in the air.
She turns. Walks fast, arms wrapped around herself like armor.He doesn't follow. Just sinks down to the curb and buries his face in his hands.
I keep walking.Shrug a little.
But my hands stay tight in my pockets.
People say words.But threads scream louder.
Home is quiet.Too quiet, sometimes.
Mom's in the kitchen, probably prepping for tomorrow. Dad's in the garage again, fiddling with old wires and speakers.
We greeted each other.That's about it.
I slip into my room and close the door behind me.
It's a mess in here.Sneakers under the bed. Stacks of notebooks.Homework half-done and half-buried under snack wrappers.
Whiteboard by the window:Doodles. Dumb reminders. A to-do list I'll never finish.
I drop my bag. Kick off my shoes.Sit cross-legged on the bed and open one of the older notebooks.
Today's entries:
Red thread, alleyway, broken.
Pale blue thread, two kids by the court.
Nothing in class. Dead vibe.
Then I reach the page marked "Cael."It's still empty.
Always is.
I don't write anything.Don't need to.
I already know what's there.
And what isn't.
Later, I head out for snacks.The sun's already low. I pass by a pair of neighborhood kids chasing a crumpled paper plane down the street. One's barefoot. The other's got a superhero cape made from an old towel.
They're laughing so hard they can't even breathe.
Between them, a thread stretches—white-gold.Soft. Glowing.Friendship wrapped in love. Real love. The kind that doesn't know it's precious yet.
I stop walking.Just watch.
It's… magic.The kind I'll never get tired of seeing.
Then my phone buzzes.
You still owe me fries.
I laugh. Out loud.
A few people look. I don't care.
I pocket my phone, keep walking, lighter than before.
| "I don't get why he doesn't have a thread.
| But whenever he's around…
| things don't feel so heavy."