Chapter Text
The cool autumn wind through the trees was like a whisper, barely audible but soothing. The smell of bubblegum, cheap cologne and new books engulfed ANAKT high once more. Rumours say there’s a new kid.
Ivan was looking through his locker for his physics textbook, when he felt a tug at his wrist—
Ivan froze.
The noise of the hallway blurred into static—laughter, lockers slamming, footsteps echoing too loud. His wrist burned, not painful, just there, undeniable. He stared down at it.
The string was no longer faint.
It glowed, vivid and unmistakable, wrapped snugly around his wrist like it had always belonged there.
His breath caught.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. The string had never reacted like this before—not in middle school, not in crowded trains, not in packed classrooms.
Ivan had started to believe the rumours were wrong.
Or worse—that he was.
Another tug.
Stronger this time.
Ivan slammed his locker shut and turned, heart hammering as his gaze followed the pull down the hallway.
“The string theory is true, Ivan. It shows you the love of your life; someone you’ll forever be bound to, no matter what.” His mother said to him once, stuck in her unhappy marriage with a neglectful husband.
He’d never really believed in the string. He’d accepted it, sure, but true love? Seriously? That seemed ironic, for a person like him.. He’d fooled around with so many people, finding true love was practically impossible.
Why was he feeling like this now?
It would be complicated.
Ivan turns the corner too fast.
He collides with someone solid—warm—shoulder hitting chest, breath knocked clean from his lungs.
“Sorry—” Ivan starts.
At the same time, the string yanks.
Hard.
Till feels it before he understands it.
A sharp pull at his wrist, sudden and reflexive, like his body reacting before his mind can catch up. His fingers curl instinctively, hand jerking back—
And Ivan stumbles forward.
Not much. Just enough.
Enough that Till’s free hand shoots out, catching him by the sleeve before he can fall. They end up far too close, faces inches apart, breaths overlapping in the narrow hallway.
The noise around them fades.
Till blinks, eyes dropping to where their wrists are nearly touching.
The string is there.
Bright. Undeniable.
Wrapped tight around both of them, stretched short by the distance—or lack of it—between their bodies.
Till’s breath catches.
He releases Ivan like he’s been burned.
“I—” Till starts, then stops. His jaw tightens. He tugs his sleeve down hard, too hard.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to.”
Ivan steadies himself, heart hammering, wrist still warm where the pull lingered.
“It’s fine,” he says automatically.
But his gaze hasn’t left Till’s wrist.
Neither has Till’s.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then Till steps back, putting space between them, shoulders stiff.
“Watch where you’re going,” he mutters—not unkind, but closed off, already retreating.
He turns and walks away before Ivan can respond.
The string stretches.
Not enough to snap.
Just enough to ache.
Ivan stands there long after Till disappears into the crowd, fingers curling slowly around his wrist.
So that’s how it starts, he thinks.
That night, Till..
Till couldn’t sleep.
The room was too quiet. Every sound felt too loud anyway—the tick of the clock, the hum of the heater, his own breathing.
And the string.
It glowed faintly in the dark.
He sat up, staring at his wrist like it had betrayed him.
“This is stupid,” he muttered.
He yanked at it again. Nothing. It didn’t loosen. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even feel like thread anymore. More like a nerve.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and paced his room, rubbing his wrist raw.
“Out of everyone,” he said under his breath. “Out of everyone.”
He didn’t even know the guy. Just some guy with dark hair and sharp eyes and a stupidly calm voice.
Soulmate?
No. No way.
Till stopped in front of the mirror.
The string glowed brighter when he looked at himself.
Like it was mocking him.
“I don’t believe in you,” he said to it. “You don’t get to decide things for me.”
He pressed his thumb into it hard.
It burned.
Not enough to injure—just enough to hurt.
Till hissed and yanked his hand back.
“See?” he snapped. “You’re just—some psychosomatic—”
He cut himself off.
Because his chest hurt too.
Because when he closed his eyes, he could still feel Ivan’s sleeve in his hand. Still see how close they’d been. Still hear the way his voice had sounded when he said It’s fine.
Till sat back on the couch, burying his face in his hands.
“This isn’t happening,” he whispered.
Ivan, on the other side, lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
His wrist rested on his chest.
The string glowed softly against his skin, steady now. Calm. Certain.
He turned his hand slowly, watching the light catch on it.
“So it’s you,” he murmured.
Not angry.
Not scared.
Just… stunned.
He’d imagined this moment before. Not in detail, but in feeling. The day the string would finally do something.
He just hadn’t expected it to feel like relief.
Ivan closed his eyes.
Till’s face came back to him—tense, guarded, beautiful in a way that didn’t feel safe to think about.
“Of course you’d be like that,” Ivan muttered, half-smiling to himself.
Running.
Denying.
Pretending nothing happened.
Ivan shifted onto his side, staring at the glow on his wrist.
“I don’t know you yet,” he said quietly. “But… okay.”
The word surprised even him.
Okay.
He exhaled slowly.
“If you’re real,” he told the string, “then I’ll wait.”
The glow didn’t fade.
If anything—it felt warmer.
It felt like fate.