I think I see it—
the red string glinting in air too still,
drawn taut between two hearts
before they even touch.

Not a thread you feel,
but one I catch in glances,
the way a laugh echoes too long,
a silence softens too deep.

It hums like a violin
only I can hear—
when fingers brush,
when eyes lock too soon
and too late.

Call it fate,
call it madness,
but I’ve seen that line
glow like dusk
between strangers
who were never strangers at all.