Soulbound

(!!WARNING!! This story contains: Mentions of Mental Health issues, Physical Violence, and mentions of Suicide.)

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Mason Demian had always noticed things other people didn’t.

It started small. A flicker of movement where there shouldn’t be one. The faintest echo of a voice when a room was empty. The way certain places felt heavier than others, like the air itself had weight and memory. As a kid, he tried to explain it once—tugging at his mother’s sleeve, pointing at nothing, insisting something was there. She smiled in that tight, polite way adults do when they don’t want to encourage imagination too far, and told him he just had a vivid mind.

So Mason learned to stop talking about it.

But he never stopped noticing.

By the time he turned nineteen, he had grown used to living on the edge of things—half in the ordinary world, half brushing against something he couldn’t name. It didn’t scare him anymore. Not really. It just… isolated him.

Because no one else saw what he saw.

No one else felt it.

The first time Mason saw the red string, he thought he was losing his mind.

He had been sitting on a bus, staring out the window, watching the world smear into muted colors as the glass vibrated against the frame. It was late afternoon, the kind of hour where everything looked tired. People were slumped in their seats, headphones in, eyes glazed over.

That’s when he noticed it.

A thin red line.

It stretched from the wrist of the woman sitting across the aisle—a soft, glowing thread—and disappeared somewhere beyond the bus window. Mason blinked hard. Then again.

It didn’t go away.

He leaned forward slightly, heart starting to race, eyes tracing the string. It shimmered faintly, like it wasn’t entirely solid. Like it existed halfway between here and somewhere else.

The woman shifted in her seat, rubbing her wrist absentmindedly.

She didn’t see it.

Mason swallowed. He glanced around. No one else reacted. No one pointed or stared or questioned why a glowing red thread was tethered to a stranger’s skin.

Slowly, carefully, he reached out.

His fingers passed right through it.

He jerked back, breath catching in his throat.

“What the hell…” he whispered under his breath.

But even as panic began to rise, something else settled in deeper.

Recognition.

He didn’t know how he knew—but he knew.

It was the red string of fate.

After that day, Mason started seeing them everywhere.

They were subtle. Easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. But once he knew what to look for, they were impossible to ignore.

A couple laughing together at a café, their wrists connected by a taut red thread.

Two strangers passing each other on the sidewalk, their strings brushing, vibrating slightly as if acknowledging proximity.

A man sitting alone at a bar, his string stretched thin and distant, disappearing into a direction he couldn’t follow.

Mason watched them all.

Studied them.

Obsessed over them.

Because every single person he looked at had one thing in common.

They all had a string.

Everyone except him.

At first, he told himself he just hadn’t noticed it yet.

Maybe his was thinner. Fainter. Harder to see.

He spent hours staring at his own wrist, turning it under different lights, different angles, searching for even the slightest flicker of red.

Nothing.

He tried to feel it. If he could see other people’s, maybe he could sense his own. He closed his eyes, focused, reached inward—

Still nothing.

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks into months.

And the truth settled in, heavy and undeniable.

He didn’t have one.

Mason didn’t tell anyone.

How could he?

“Hey, I can see the invisible strings that tie people to their soulmates, and I don’t have one.”

It sounded insane even in his own head.

So he kept it to himself.

But the knowledge gnawed at him.

Every time he saw a red thread, something twisted inside his chest.

At first, it was curiosity. Then confusion.

Then envy.

And eventually—

Something darker.

He started avoiding people.

It was easier than seeing the strings.

Easier than being reminded that everyone else had something he didn’t.

He stopped taking the bus. Stopped going to crowded places. Stopped meeting up with the few friends he had left.

Instead, he wandered alone.

Late nights. Empty streets. Places where the world felt quieter, thinner—where the strange things he sensed didn’t feel so overwhelming.

But even in solitude, the thought followed him.

You’re alone.

Not just now.

Forever.

Depression didn’t hit him all at once.

It crept in slowly, like a leak he didn’t notice until the room was already flooded.

He stopped caring about things.

Stopped eating regularly.

Stopped answering messages.

Sleep came in uneven bursts—either too much or not at all.

And underneath it all, there was this constant, dull ache.

Like something was missing.

Like something had always been missing.

Then came the anger.

It surprised him.

One night, he found himself standing in front of a mirror, staring at his own reflection, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

“Why?” he muttered.

His voice sounded wrong. Hollow. Sharper than he intended.

“Why everyone else?”

His reflection didn’t answer.

Of course it didn’t.

His hands curled into fists.

“Why not me?”

The words cracked out of him, louder this time.

Still no answer.

Something inside him snapped.

He slammed his fist into the mirror.

Glass shattered.

Pain exploded across his knuckles, sharp and immediate. Blood welled up, dripping down his hand.

Mason stared at it.

Then he laughed.

A short, bitter sound.

“Figures,” he muttered.

After that, things got worse.

Reckless.

That was the word.

He started taking risks he never would have before.

Crossing streets without looking.

Picking fights he couldn’t win.

Climbing onto rooftops just to stand at the edge and feel the wind push against him.

There was a strange kind of freedom in it.

If he didn’t have a future—if there was no one waiting for him, no string tying him to anyone—then what did it matter?

What did anything matter?

One night, he stood on the edge of a building, ten stories up.

The city stretched out below him, lights flickering like distant stars.

The wind was cold, biting through his jacket, tugging at his clothes.

He looked down.

It would be easy.

One step.

That’s all it would take.

His heart pounded, but it didn’t feel like fear.

It felt like—

Relief.

He closed his eyes.

Took a breath.

And leaned forward.

“Hey.”

The voice cut through the moment like a blade.

Mason froze.

His eyes snapped open.

“What are you doing?”

He turned.

A girl stood a few feet behind him.

He hadn’t heard her approach.

Hadn’t sensed her at all.

Which, in itself, was strange.

She looked about his age. Dark hair, pulled back loosely. Eyes sharp and steady, fixed on him with an intensity that made his chest tighten.

“None of your business,” Mason muttered, turning back toward the edge.

“It kind of is,” she said.

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because you’re about to do something stupid,” she replied, stepping closer. “And I’d rather not watch that happen.”

He scoffed. “Then don’t watch.”

Silence.

Then—

“You don’t have one either, do you?”

Mason stiffened.

Slowly, he turned back to her.

“What did you just say?”

She held his gaze.

“The string,” she said simply. “You don’t have one.”

His heart slammed against his ribs.

“How do you—”

“Because I can see them too.”

The world seemed to tilt.

For a moment, all he could do was stare at her.

“You’re lying,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

“I’m not,” she replied calmly. “And you know I’m not.”

He searched her face for any sign of deception.

There was none.

Just quiet certainty.

“…Then you should have one,” he said, his voice dropping. “Everyone does.”

She didn’t respond right away.

Instead, she held out her wrist.

Mason’s breath caught.

There was no string.

They stood there, suspended in a fragile, impossible moment.

“You really don’t have one,” he whispered.

She shook her head.

“Never have.”

Something shifted inside him.

Not quite hope.

But something close.

“Then… what does that mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I do know this—” She gestured toward the edge. “That’s not the answer.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“It doesn’t feel like there are any answers,” he said quietly.

She studied him for a moment.

Then, softly, she said, “Maybe not yet.”

They talked for a long time that night.

About the strings.

About what they meant.

About what it felt like to exist just slightly outside of everything.

Her name was Lila.

She had noticed the strings years ago, just like him. Had gone through the same confusion. The same isolation.

But unlike Mason, she hadn’t let it consume her.

“I figured,” she said with a small shrug, “if I don’t have one, then I’ll just… make my own connections.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “That sounds nice in theory.”

“It’s not just theory,” she replied. “It’s work. It’s choosing to stay. Choosing to care, even when it’s hard.”

He looked at her.

“You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” she said. “But it’s worth it.”

When Mason finally went home that night, something felt different.

Not fixed.

Not healed.

But… less heavy.

He slept for the first time in what felt like weeks.

Deep. Dreamless.

And when he woke up—

He noticed it immediately.

A faint tug at his wrist.

His eyes snapped open.

Slowly, almost afraid to look, he lifted his arm.

And there it was.

A red string.

It glowed softly in the morning light, wrapped around his wrist like it had always been there.

Mason’s breath came in short, uneven bursts.

“No way,” he whispered.

His hand trembled as he reached out with his other hand.

This time—

He felt it.

Not fully solid. But there.

Real.

“Why now?” he breathed.

As if in answer, the string tightened slightly.

Pulling.

Guiding.

His heart pounded.

He didn’t hesitate.

He followed it.

It led him through streets he barely registered, past people and places that blurred together.

All he could focus on was the pull.

The direction.

The feeling of something—someone—waiting.

Finally, it led him to a familiar place.

The building.

The rooftop.

Mason’s pulse quickened as he climbed the stairs two at a time.

He burst through the door—

And there she was.

Lila stood at the edge, just like the night before, the wind tugging at her hair.

She turned at the sound.

Their eyes met.

Mason looked down at his wrist.

The string stretched from him—

To her.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Lila glanced at her own wrist.

A red thread glowed there now.

Her eyes widened slightly.

“…Well,” she said softly.

Mason let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in his chest for months.

A laugh bubbled up, shaky and disbelieving.

“I guess we were just… late,” he said.

Lila smiled.

“Or maybe,” she said, “we just needed to find each other first.”

He stepped closer.

The string between them shimmered, warm and steady.

For the first time in a long time, Mason didn’t feel like he was standing on the edge of something empty.

He felt grounded.

Anchored.

Connected.

Not just by the string—

But by choice.

By understanding.

By something deeper than fate.

He looked at her, really looked at her, and felt something unfamiliar settle into place.

Hope.

Mason had always noticed things other people didn’t.

But this—

This was something he could finally hold onto.

And as he stood there, the red string gently pulling between them, he realized something simple, something steady, something true:

He wasn’t alone.

And for the first time—

He had something to live for.

(THE END)