The Red String Doesn’t Always Mean Forever

When I was 18, he told me he loved me but couldn’t choose me. At the time, those words both broke me and saved me. He was drowning, suicidal, heartbroken, and honest enough to admit he couldn’t carry me with him. I wanted to be the net that caught him every time he fell — but the truth is, I barely even knew the depth of the ocean he was in.

His honesty freed me from a chaos I wasn’t ready for, even if the mixed messages tempted me to hold onto all the what ifs. I confused intensity with safety, thinking love was measured by how much pain I was willing to shoulder. I thought saving him would save me, too. But that was the part of me that grew up watching my mother put herself last — the part of me that believed I was only worthy if I was needed.

He told me “not now, maybe years from now,” and for a long time I let that line hold me hostage. But now I’m 25, and I know better. Love without capacity is not an offer. The red string that once tied us together still tugs sometimes, but instead of letting it bind me to his absence, I’ve started wrapping it around myself. Because if I am meant to be caught, it won’t be by someone who keeps their hands in their pockets while I fall.