There is something deeply comforting about the legend of the Red String of Fate.
The idea that somewhere in this endless world, someone is tied to us. Someone destined. Someone inevitable. We are told that no matter how tangled the thread becomes, no matter how far it stretches, it will always lead us to the person meant for us.
And people love this story because they assume fate is kind.
They imagine soulmates.
Happy endings.
A love so powerful that two people would abandon everything else the moment they find one another.
But destiny has never promised happiness.
After all, diseases are destined too.
Wars are destined.
Tragedies are destined.
Not every inevitable thing is beautiful.
And that is what fascinates me about the Red String.
The possibility that the person tied to you is not someone you can love.
Not someone good.
Not someone safe.
What happens if your soulmate stands on the opposite side of a war?
What happens if they hurt you?
What happens if the person at the other end of the string is cruel, or selfish, or simply too different from you for love to survive?
People speak of destiny as though it removes choice, as though finding “the one” means every obstacle suddenly disappears.
But what if love and fate are not the same thing?
Imagine a child asking their mother why she never leaves the man who bruises her skin and breaks her spirit, and the mother answers:
“Because he is my fate.”
Because somewhere along the line, suffering became romanticized.
Endurance became devotion.
And destiny became a cage.
That is the horror hidden inside the Red String:
the idea that no matter how much someone destroys you, they were still meant for you.
And maybe that is why I love the trope of cutting the string.
Because for once, someone chooses themselves over destiny.
Someone looks at the thread tied around their wrist and says:
“No.”
No to suffering disguised as fate.
No to becoming smaller for someone else.
No to loving a person simply because the universe decided they belonged there.
There is something tragic and beautiful about a person trying to change themselves for the one they are tied to, reshaping every part of who they are just to become lovable enough… only for the other person to sever the thread anyway.
And there is something even sadder about those who cut their strings before they ever meet their soulmate at all.
Children raised watching their parents destroy each other.
Children taught that destiny means pain.
So they take scissors to the thread long before love ever has the chance to touch them.
Because if fate only leads to suffering, why follow it?
And yet humans are desperate creatures.
Even after cutting the string, they try to tie it again.
To someone kinder.
Safer.
Someone they chose instead of someone chosen for them.
But forced destiny leaves scars.
Sometimes people tie their broken strings to monsters.
Sometimes they mistake obsession for love.
Sometimes the very thread meant to connect them becomes the thing that strangles them.
That is why the Red String fascinates me so much.
Because red is not only the color of passion.
It is also the color of blood.
And perhaps the cruelest thing about fate is that it does not care whether the hands around your heart are gentle or violent.
Only that they were always meant to reach you.
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(might write more stories for this promt myself If anyone has requests, If not any writer is free to use this promt too!)
