Strings Attached

Bean There, Brewed That

Michael Clifford had made exactly 107 lattes that day. His apron smelled like espresso and vanilla syrup, and his back ached from standing behind the counter of Bean There, Brewed That for hours. It was a Tuesday, which meant no rush, just regulars with complicated orders and teenagers pretending to study.

He was mid-froth on a caramel oat milk cappuccino when something brushed his arm. Not a person, not a breeze, but something soft—paper?

A folded pink paper airplane spiraled lazily through the air and tapped him right on the forearm before landing at his feet.

Michael blinked. "Did someone just—throw that?"

He glanced around. No one was looking at him. The girl with the red headphones was still scrolling on her phone. The old man by the window was dozing. No one appeared even slightly suspicious.

He leaned down to pick it up, but before his fingers could touch the pink paper, a warmth bloomed on his left hand. He looked down.

A glowing, silky pink string had appeared, tied neatly around his pinky finger like some magical embroidery floss. The other end floated forward—taut, shimmering, and moving.

"What the hell?" he muttered.

He dropped the pitcher and followed it, stepping around customers and chairs like a man hypnotized. The string passed through the glass door and out into the street, visible only to him.

He pushed through the door and stepped into the sunlight. The string continued down the sidewalk, bobbing and weaving like it had a destination. His heartbeat quickened. Was he being punked? Was this a dream? Or was this—dare he say—fate?

He followed it.

The pink thread curved through alleyways, across intersections, around lampposts. Michael weaved through crowds, occasionally getting tangled in hot dog carts and dodging suspicious glances. No matter how far he walked, the end of the string stayed out of reach.

An hour passed. He stopped only once to down a bottle of water and stare longingly at a taco stand. But the string kept pulling him, and something in his chest told him don't stop now.

Then—of course—he ran into traffic.

Literally.

The pink string darted across a busy intersection in the heart of downtown. Michael, exhausted and driven by pure stubbornness at this point, didn't even check the light. He bolted.

A car horn screamed.

Michael turned, frozen in the center of the crosswalk, as a blur of red metal barreled toward him. His legs locked. He braced himself.

But then—arms. Strong, quick arms yanked him backward with a grunt.

They tumbled onto the sidewalk, Michael landing hard on his back with someone landing on top of him.

"Dude," a voice said, breathless. "You trying to die for cardio or something?"

Michael blinked up into a face framed by wild, mint-green hair, sweat-slicked and worried. His eyes were the kind that made you feel like you'd been caught doing something stupid but might still be forgiven.

Michael gasped. The string. It had looped from his finger straight into this stranger's hand, tied neatly around his pinky, glowing in the late afternoon light.

They both stared at it.

"Um..." the stranger said, lifting his pinky slowly. "You seeing this?"

Michael nodded. "Okay. This is either a soulmate thing or I hit my head way harder than I thought."

The guy laughed, loud and unbothered. "Well, I'd say let's test the head injury theory, but I think we just got magically tethered together by a sparkly string. I'm Awsten, by the way."

"Michael." He stared at Awsten, who still hadn't let go of his arm. He didn't mind. "So. What now?"

"Well," Awsten said, sitting up beside him, "we could ignore it and pretend this is totally normal. Or..." He held up his glowing pinky. "We could follow where this goes. Maybe we get cursed. Maybe we find a portal. Maybe we fall in love."

Michael snorted. "Right. You and me."

"Is that a bad thing?"

Michael hesitated. He had never, in twenty-eight years of life, looked at a guy and thought, Yeah, I could kiss that. But something about Awsten—his chaotic hair, his dumb grin, the way he didn't let him get hit by a car—sparked a flicker of maybe.

"I've never... you know," he said carefully. "Been into guys."

"Cool," Awsten replied with a shrug. "I've never eaten octopus. Doesn't mean I wouldn't try it if someone handed me a fork."

Michael laughed, surprised by how easy it felt to smile around this stranger. "So you're saying I'm the octopus?"

"I'm saying maybe don't knock it 'til you've tried it," Awsten said with a wink.

Michael looked at the string between them. It glowed a little softer now, like it was calming down.

"Wanna get coffee?" Michael asked, still slightly winded, dirt on his jeans and wonder in his voice.

Awsten smirked. "Only if you promise not to get hit by any more vehicles. Or airborne origami."

"How did you know I got hit by flying origami?" Michael asked, eyes wide with disbelief.

Awsten raised an eyebrow, then lifted his pinky, the glowing pink string shimmering faintly between them.

"Uh, hello?" he said with a grin, wiggling his finger. "I got hit too, remember?"

He chuckled, the sound light and easy, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Michael snorted. "Right. Magical string. Got it. Welp! No promises. Paper's out to get me."

They stood, Michael offering his hand, and Awsten took it with a dramatic flair like they were in a Jane Austen novel—if Jane Austen wrote about pastel-haired chaos gremlins and magical string incidents.

As they started walking, still tethered by the glowing pink string, Awsten nudged him with his elbow. "So... if I amyour magical soulmate, do I get free coffee for life? Or is that like, only on weekends?"

Michael grinned. "Only if you tip in compliments and unsolicited music recommendations."

"Oh, I've got those. Hope you like sad indie bops and playlists named after emotional damage."

"I work in coffee," Michael said. "I basically run on emotional damage."

They laughed, their footsteps in sync, the string swaying gently between them like a secret they'd both just been let in on.

Behind them, the pink paper airplane sat on the sidewalk, fluttering in the breeze like it knew exactly what it was doing.