AIZA POV:

The blinking cursor pulsed on the screen—steady, rhythmic. Mocking me in its silence.

I stared at it, fingers hovering above the keyboard, hesitant. Unwilling. The weight of it pressed into my chest, familiar yet strange.

It had been years since I last wrote a letter to God.

Once, it had been a ritual. Something sacred. A tether to something bigger than myself. If I skipped a day, I feared the sky would cave in, the ground would tremble beneath me, the fragile balance of my world would shatter.

Back then, I believed—truly believed—that He listened. That my words mattered. That I mattered.

Funny how life has a way of unraveling faith.

I exhaled slowly, pressing my fingertips against my temples, trying to keep the flood of memories at bay.

Jeremy.

The name alone was enough to turn my insides to glass.

Love. Regret. Longing.

A tangled knot that had never truly loosened.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

A mistake.

Because there he was—his voice, his smile, his hands. The past curling around me, slipping through cracks I had spent years trying to seal.

FLASHBACK

Paris had never felt so still.

The Eiffel Tower shimmered in the distance, its lights spilling like scattered stars, clinging to its iron frame.

Paris breathed around me—soft murmurs of laughter, the distant hum of traffic, the whisper of the wind winding through narrow streets, carrying the scent of rain and espresso.

I stood at the edge of the observation deck, fingers curled around the railing. The metal was cold beneath my touch. Steady. Solid. Something tangible in a moment that felt anything but.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

The voice—deep, familiar—coiled around me like smoke. I turned.

Jeremy.

Hands tucked into his coat pockets, eyes flickering with something I couldn’t name. Hesitation? Hope?

That smile. Soft. Knowing. The smile that once undid me.

"It is," I managed, the words fragile. Forced.

He stepped closer, gaze unwavering.

"Not as beautiful as you."

I laughed—a short, breathy thing. "Cheesy."

"I mean it."

The words landed softly, slipping beneath my ribs. Settling in the spaces where doubt lived.

And then—almost too fast—a velvet box appeared in his hands.

I froze.

He knelt.

Right there, in the heart of Paris, beneath a universe of stars and city lights.

"Aiza..." His voice was raw. Honest. "I know I mess up. I know we’re a mess. But I love you. I have always loved you. Will you marry me?"

The world held its breath.

And so did I.

Every part of me—every pulse, every memory, every dream—wanted to say yes.

But something deeper, something bruised and quiet, held me back.

So I turned.

And walked away.

FLASHBACK ENDS

The cursor blinked again. I exhaled, pressing my palms into my lap, grounding myself.

Then, slowly—deliberately—I began to type.

Dear God,
It’s been a while, hasn’t it?
Do You still listen?
Because... my heart still hurts.
And I don’t know how to make it stop.
I’m leaving for Paris tomorrow.
Am I strong enough to face him?

Engrossed in my work, I let the world fade.

The sketches before me weren’t just strokes of graphite on paper anymore. They were coming alive—lines breathing, shapes whispering, emotions unspoken yet understood.

Outside, the snowfall thickened, clinging to the windowpane in fragile lace-like patterns. It melted almost instantly, vanishing before it could leave a mark.

A ghost of a sigh escaped my lips.

It had been years, and yet, some things refused to disappear.

My gaze drifted, caught in a quiet pull, a slow unraveling of memories.

Ahaana and Caleb.

Their bond had held strong despite time’s wear. Soon, Caleb would be proposing. Ahaana’s voice, spilling through my phone during weekend calls, painted their life in broad strokes—her laughter, Caleb’s teasing interjections, the soft hum of shared happiness.

"Sometimes," she had confessed once, "it feels like he’s existed in my life forever. Like I’ve always known him."

I had smiled, a little wistfully.

Love, when certain, had a way of feeling inevitable.

Caleb, now CEO of Carter Enterprises, had stepped into a future already paved for him, yet he never seemed burdened by its weight. Ahaana said he carried it with ease, like it belonged to him from the start.

My thoughts shifted.

Ryna.

There was something effortless about the way she moved through the world now—glamorous, confident, magnetic.

The fashion industry adored her, the same way we always had.

Yet, yesterday, when I had asked about Ronan, she had neatly sidestepped the question.

Avoidance was its own kind of answer.

I wondered if something had changed between them, if distance had crept in, quiet and unspoken, like it had with so many things in my life.

Aaron.

California suited him, sunlit and bright.

Managing an architectural firm had sharpened him—polished, professional—but beneath it all, he was still Aaron. The boy who spent hours dissecting floor plans, who dropped book recommendations into our group chat without warning, who still argued passionately about historical structures like they were alive.

A warmth tugged at the edges of my thoughts.

At least some things hadn’t changed.

A sudden chime pulled me back.

My phone.

A notification.

"Jeremy posted an update of 'The Love Strings'."

I inhaled sharply.

My gaze flickered to my wallpaper—the one I had meant to change months ago.

I never did.

Some part of me wasn’t ready.

With hesitant fingers, I tapped the notification.

The screen flickered to life, revealing the latest chapter of the webtoon.

My heart skipped.

Years had passed, but Jeremy hadn’t changed. His success hadn’t dulled him.

That spark. That quiet intensity. That pull—the one that had once felt like gravity itself.

FLASHBACK

The library had been quiet, the way I liked it.

I had tucked myself away at the corner desk, absorbed in the pages of a novel, letting time slip through my fingers between classes.

"Whatcha reading, Buttercup?"

Jeremy’s voice—soft, teasing—broke my focus.

I looked up to find him leaning against the bookshelf, his amusement barely hidden behind dark eyes.

Jeremy Winston. The Mask Man of our university.

Brown eyes, soft hair, half-hidden behind that black mask.

"Just a fictional book," I replied, holding it up for him to see.

His gaze lingered.

"Mind if I join you?"

He was already pulling a chair beside me.

I smiled. He never really asked—just existed beside me, as if he had always belonged there.

We dove into the book together, shared theories, traded laughter in whispers. Occasionally, our hands brushed turning pages—a fleeting touch, a quiet pulse of electricity neither of us acknowledged.

Three months ago, Jeremy had confessed that he liked me.

Not loved.

Liked.

Still, the memory sent warmth curling through me.

Silly.

This reaction, this flood of feelings over a boy who had once been a passing thought and then, somehow, had become everything.

"You know, Jeremy," I murmured, barely above a whisper, "I’ve always found the idea of the red string of fate fascinating."

His gaze flicked to me, curious.

"Oh yeah? How so?"

I traced the edge of the book absentmindedly.

"It’s the belief that the gods tie an invisible red string around those who are meant to find each other. The two people connected by the thread are destined lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstance. The cord may stretch, may tangle... but it never breaks."

Jeremy was silent for a moment, thoughtful.

"That’s beautiful," he said finally, voice quieter. "And who knows... maybe our strings were tied together long before we even met."

The words landed softly, slipping between my ribs.

I looked at him—held his gaze longer than I should have—and hoped.

Hoped that our strings were tied.

That they would never break.

That fate had entwined us in a way that would last forever.

And after that day, Jeremy took his first step toward his career.

A webtoon.

"The Love Strings."

FLASHBACK ENDS

Gently, I wiped away the tear tracing down my cheek.

No matter how much I tried, some things refused to be erased.

With unsteady fingers, I reached for my phone, hesitating for only a breath before dialing.

The ringing filled the silence.

Then—

"Hello."

His voice was a melody I hadn’t heard in a year.

And just like that, the distance disappeared.

"Jeremy," I whispered.

A pause. Silence stretching between us.

"I... I miss you."

Another pause. Longer. He was processing, calculating—trying to decide what to say next.

"Aiza," he finally murmured.

Then—

"Jeremy, dinner is ready! Come on, I made your favorite."

A woman’s voice.

Foreign. Familiar.

A lump lodged in my throat.

"Jeremy," I started, voice straining, "Are you coming to Paris? Caleb is going to propose to Ana."

Silence.

Then—

"Yes, Aiza. I'll be there."

It should have felt like relief.

It didn’t.

The woman called for him again, her voice pulling him away from me.

"I... I have to go, Aiza."

Aiza.

Not Buttercup.

The call ended.

And I stared at the screen, the silence consuming me.

The tears came fast—hot, relentless.

I felt betrayed.

I felt alone.

But despite the ache, despite the unbearable weight pressing into my chest, I held onto one fragile belief.

The red string of fate.

Maybe—just maybe—ours would tie together again.

But...

Even if it did—

What about the knot?