Kiss of Fate

String of Fate

I've always despised the idea of people being connected by a string—a red thread that supposedly ties you to your perfect match. It's ridiculous, really. A stupid little string wrapped around your pinky or ring finger, dictating your fate like some cosmic joke. I hated the concept so much that I learned how to hide mine, making it look like I didn’t even have one. Most people can’t see their threads anyway, but I could. And every time I glanced at mine, it only fueled my frustration.

It wasn't just the idea of it that got under my skin—it was who the string led to. Of all people, it had to point to him, the so-called hero of the city. HotGuy. The most obnoxious, arrogant, overhyped person I’d ever met. It was like some twisted irony that fate would pair me with the one person who made my blood boil just by existing.

I hated it. I hated seeing that thread. Hated the fact that no matter how much I tried to ignore it or deny it, it was always there, pulling, reminding me that we were connected.

I even tried everything—everything—to break that damn string. Magic scissors, rituals, even asking around for ways to sever it. Nothing worked. It didn’t matter how much effort I poured into tearing it apart; the thread remained as strong as ever, mocking me. It was as if the universe itself was laughing at my frustration.

Sometimes, it felt like he didn’t want me to break it. Like the thread was holding firm because he was on the other end, somehow keeping it intact, even though he probably didn’t even know it existed. It drove me insane.

But I couldn't dwell on that much today—I had to get ready for my shift as a barista. So, I shoved the thought aside, took a shower, washed my hair, did all the usual routine, and threw on my uniform. Nothing about the day felt special or different. Just another day where I had to plaster on a smile and serve coffee to strangers, pretending I wasn’t constantly tethered to someone I couldn’t stand.

As I made my way to work, walking down the usual streets, HotGuy was once again in the spotlight. He'd saved the city—again. And there he was, basking in the attention, being interviewed like he was some kind of godsend. The crowd ate it up, of course, hanging on his every word.

I didn’t expect him to notice me. Why would he? I was just another face in the crowd, another random civilian passing by. But as I walked past, trying my hardest to blend into the background, I felt it—the string. It tugged slightly, almost as if it had a mind of its own, and before I knew it, his eyes flicked over to me.

I couldn’t believe it. Of all the people standing there, chanting his name and showering him with praise, it was me he noticed. His gaze locked onto mine, and for just a split second, I wondered—could he feel it too? That invisible thread between us, the one I’d give anything to sever. Did he sense it pulling him toward me, the same way it always seemed to pull me toward him?

I didn’t let the thought linger. Instead, I shot him a look of pure disdain, hoping it was enough to make it clear I wanted nothing to do with him. Then, without missing a beat, I continued on my way to work, determined to ignore the whole moment.

But just as I was about to lose myself in the crowd again, I heard it—the sound of people shifting, parting like a wave. The murmurs grew louder, and I realized, with growing irritation, that the hero himself was following me. The city’s golden boy was now trailing behind like some lost puppy, and I could feel the eyes of everyone around us, wondering why I of all people had caught his attention.

I gritted my teeth and quickened my pace, silently cursing that damn red string.

"Hey, wait up! Grian!" The city’s golden boy called after me, his voice cutting through the noise of the crowd. I paused slightly, my shoulders tensing at the sound of my name. Of course, he knew it—after all, we’d had more than a few run-ins in the past. Hell, I was probably his favorite civilian at this point, but that didn’t change the fact that he annoyed the hell out of me.