Red String, Black Thread

Chapter 11: Of Red Threads and False Hope

Vesper didn't sleep.

Not really.

Every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the look on Auren's face when he whispered,
"You were the one who cursed me."

She didn't cry.

Not because it didn't hurt.

But because part of her... remembered.

Not in clear images, not yet. But in flashes.

Laughter, in candlelight.
A promise whispered under a blood moon.
The tightening of something invisible.
And then his scream.

The next morning, the thread wasn't as tight.

Still there-wrapped around her neck-but slack, like it had loosened its grip. Like it was waiting.

For what?

She didn't know.

She walked the halls like a ghost.

Avoided Auren like he might shatter her with a glance.

And he didn't chase her.

Didn't look at her in class.

Didn't say a word.

Which made it worse.

Lunch came.

She left.

Found her usual spot behind the gym, near the rusted bike racks.

The silence was better there. Easier.

Until-

Something pulsed in her chest.

A tug.

But not the black thread.

Something else.

Vesper blinked and looked down.

A red thread.
Thin. Glowing. Tied to her pinkie.

And it was new.

She scrambled up, eyes following its soft stretch, leading around the building. She followed-barely breathing.

It led to the art room.

And inside, sitting at the far table, painting skies with bruised clouds-

Was Ilián.

He looked up when she entered, a soft confusion in his ocean-colored eyes.

Ilián (gentle): "...Are you here to paint? Or to scream?"

Vesper (still stunned): "Neither. I-I don't know why I'm here."

She looked at the thread.

Still there. Still red. Still glowing.

Ilián (smiling faintly): "You looked like you were following something invisible. Guess that's just art kids for you."

Vesper (sitting slowly): "You're new."

Ilián: "I transferred yesterday. You're the first person who's said more than three words to me."

Vesper: "Sorry. I'm usually not this-creepy."

Ilián: "I don't mind creepy. I like it more than fake."

They sat in silence.

He kept painting. Vesper kept staring-at the thread, at him, at everything except the guilt clawing up her throat.

Ilián (after a while): "You ever feel like you've met someone before... but never did?"

Vesper (startled): "All the time."

Ilián: "It's weird. I saw you this morning and felt like-like I should know your name. Like I already did."

Vesper (quietly): "Vesper."

Ilián: "Vesper... Pretty name. Like the last light before the night."

She smiled before she meant to.

The thread pulsed again.

Vesper: "What's yours?"

Ilián (smirking): "Depends. You want the name my mother gave me, or the one I like better?"

Vesper: "The better one."

Ilián: "Ilián."

The way he said it felt like poetry written in reverse.

And the way her heart reacted felt like betrayal.

But not of him.

Of Auren.

Because in this quiet moment, in this room filled with paint fumes and sun-dusted silence-Auren felt like a bruise she couldn't stop pressing.

And Ilián?

He felt like a breath she hadn't taken in years.

Ilián (gently): "You okay?"

Vesper (shaking her head): "No. But I don't want to talk about why."

Ilián: "Then don't. We can talk about nothing. Or art. Or why the sky in my painting looks like it wants to kill someone."

Vesper (soft laugh): "It really does. That's impressive."

The red thread flickered.

And for just a second-just one heartbeat-
the black thread around her throat vanished.

Far away, behind a locked door and a haunted expression,
Auren clutched his chest.

Felt the shift.

Knew the distance.

And whispered to the dark:

Auren (aching): "You're choosing him... aren't you?"

But Vesper wasn't choosing anything.

She was just trying to breathe again.

And for the first time in weeks-maybe lifetimes-

She could.

TO BE CONTINUED.