The first rule of seeing the red strings of fate is to never, ever talk about them. The second is to get exceptionally good at ignoring them. I was a master of the second rule.
Most of the time.
"One large latte for Chloe!" I called out, placing the cup on the worn oak counter of The Daily Grind. A young woman with pink hair bounced forward, her hand immediately finding the hand of the boy waiting for her. A shimmering, vibrant red cord, so new it practically hummed in the air, connected their pinky fingers. It was the color of a first kiss, blindingly optimistic. I looked away, my chest giving a familiar, dull ache.
My name is Seraphina Jones—Sera to everyone but my landlord when the rent is late—and I've been able to see them my entire life. Glowing, ethereal threads that tethered soulmates together. Sometimes they were bright and strong, like Chloe's. Sometimes they were frayed and tangled, like the couple bickering in the corner, their string a messy knot of resentment and history. And sometimes, most painfully, a string would stretch from someone's hand out into the world, its other end hopelessly lost in the distance.
Those were the people who made my job as a barista a special kind of hell. The lonely ones. The ones who looked at happy couples with the same ache I felt, only they didn't have the misfortune of seeing the literal proof of what they were missing.
My gift wasn't a gift. It was a cosmic joke, a constant, nagging reminder of every connection I didn't have. I had no string. My own hand was bare, un-tethered. The universe had apparently decided I was destined to be a spectator.
"Sera, you're burning the milk," my boss, Maria, grumbled, nudging me aside to take over the hissing espresso machine.
"Sorry," I mumbled, grabbing a cloth to wipe down the counter. "Zoned out."
She gave me a sympathetic look. "Tough day?"
"Just a Tuesday," I said with a weak smile.
The bell above the door chimed, announcing a new customer. I didn't look up, my focus on a stubborn coffee ring. The usual buzz of conversation in the café, the clatter of ceramic and the low hum of indie music, seemed to dip, just for a second. The air shifted, growing heavy, charged with a sudden, electric tension. It was the kind of silence that happens when a predator enters a tranquil forest.
A pair of immaculate, hand-stitched leather shoes came into my line of sight. I slowly straightened up, my gaze traveling up a pair of perfectly tailored black trousers, over a broad chest covered in a crisp white shirt, to a face that seemed carved from granite and shadows. He was tall, impossibly so, with dark hair and eyes the color of a stormy sea. He wasn't just handsome; he was dangerous. Power rolled off him in palpable waves, an aura so intense it felt like it was sucking the very air from the room.
Every other person in the cafe faded into a black-and-white photograph. He was the only thing in color.
He was looking directly at me.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I fumbled for an order pad, my fingers suddenly clumsy. "What can I get for you?" I asked, my voice coming out as a pathetic squeak.
His gaze was piercing, analytical, as if he could see right through my skin and into the jittery mess of my soul. "Black coffee," he said. His voice was a low, rough baritone that vibrated through the floorboards.
"Right. One black coffee." I turned, my movements stiff and awkward, and began preparing his order. I could feel his eyes on my back, a physical weight. I poured the coffee with a shaking hand, sloshing some of the dark liquid over the rim. Cursing under my breath, I wiped it clean and put a lid on it.
"That'll be three-fifty," I said, turning back around, refusing to meet his eyes.
He placed a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the counter. "Keep the change."
"We, uh, can't accept—" I started, finally forcing myself to look up at him.
And that's when my world stopped.
It wasn't his eyes, or the sheer, intimidating force of his presence. It was what wasn't there.
My gaze flickered instinctively to the space above him, to his hand resting on the counter, searching for the tell-tale crimson glow.
There was nothing.
Not a frayed end. Not a faded thread. Not a tangled mess. Just… empty air. A void. A complete and utter absence where a soul's connection was supposed to be.
It was impossible. Everyone had a string. Everyone. It was a fundamental rule of the universe, as certain as gravity.
I stared, my mouth falling open, the noise of the café completely silenced by the roaring in my ears. My carefully constructed reality was cracking right down the middle.
A man with no string.
He tilted his head, his stormy eyes narrowing in confusion, as if he could sense my internal crisis. "Is there a problem?"
My hand, holding his coffee, trembled violently. My brain screamed at me to say something, anything normal. But my body had other ideas. I took a clumsy step back, my heel catching on the edge of a rubber mat.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The cup tilted in my grasp. The lid popped off. The scalding black coffee flew through the air in a perfect, horrifying arc.
It landed squarely in the center of his pristine, white, and undoubtedly very expensive shirt.
For a moment, there was a stunned silence. Then, a collective gasp from the few customers who had been watching.
I stood frozen, paralyzed by a level of mortification so profound I thought I might actually die from it. I had just assaulted the most intimidating man I had ever seen with a large black coffee.
He didn't flinch. He didn't roar in anger. He just looked down at the dark, spreading stain on his chest, and then his gaze, now impossibly dark, lifted to meet mine.
And in that moment, all I could think, over and over, like a mantra of insanity, was: He has no string. He has no string. He has no string.