Woven in the Stars

Lana 8th month, Year of the Tiger

The stars are out. Again. I have greeted 6 seasons since the colouring of the fate strings. 6 seasons since the first moon of my coming-of-age winter. 6 seasons since my string should’ve rung. At the beginning, everyone had told me to wait: maybe my soulmate has yet to reach their coming of age moon. The comments have come less often, after all, young girls who have waited this many seasons exist in rarity. Now — woven on my pinky — remained a limp crimson red.

Hope is a commodity traded with disappointment.

I still remember the first ringing of my winter. Two stars had shone particularly bright that night. According to the elders, we each are gifted a partner upon our creation, tied to us by a string. Our strings lead us to our destined one, turning from pink to red when we reach the age to find our soulmate. The sign? A ringing. Distinct. The city was buzzing, every young person of my moon caressed their strings. It had only been a day since our strings were coloured red, marking the threshold of our adulthood. Many prayers must have been said to the stars and moon that night, but only two were heard: neither of them mine. The string on my finger, still a foreign red, did not so much as shiver.

I stand, quiet. The night sky stretches from the edge of the rice paddies like grandma’s silk scarf, soft and yielding to the wind. The clouds from this evening had cleared. Now it’s only the moon, stars, and I. Somewhere in the distance, a cardinal sings. I say a silent prayer.

My sigh broke the humid summer air, but no one was around to hear. Maybe this is for the better. This way, I can focus on my future. Time is a luxury that no one has much of.

I let lady moon’s scarf fall behind me and return inside. I’ve already wasted too much time pondering. My books await — tonight looks to be long.

Out of the corner of my eyes, two stars seemed to twinkle at me. It must be a trick of the mind.

***

Archer September, 2023

It feels like the only topic of discussion these days is the fate strings. Everyone of my moon just had our colouring this fall, and since then conversations about them came to me periodically. One either cares too much or too little, there is no medium.

There is no living person who could tell you exactly how the strings came to be. They, according to the legend told to us when we are young, lead you to your soulmate. Why and how? No one is quite sure, or maybe somewhere along the line we just stopped believing. Either way, finding your soulmate feels like an arbitrary fairytale — an urban myth. I may just be critical, but it’s all a waste of time, a distraction from reality. I can’t afford to be distracted. These days, I can’t even afford a good sleep.

My phone goes off, yet another notification. I can’t recall when it started, but I’ve started to seize up with every message about work. Breath in…breath out. Someone asks for a code. I can do that — hours of work lie ahead of me, and it has been too long since the last time I worked out or took a shower — but I can do that.

My string quivered. I’ve heard something somewhere about this, but I can’t seem to recall what it is. The red is still foreign, a stark contrast against my green sweater. There I go again, distracting myself. I think I’m too tired — I should sleep.

***

Days have become shorter, as winter drapes the cityscape in snow. Archer shouldn’t care this much, he really shouldn’t. Not quite recovered from a cold, and behind on days of work, he should be at his desk right now, typing away. But he isn’t. Instead, he walks in the chilly night. He doesn’t know what changed.What made her so important that he’d step out of his own rigorous schedule to make sure she’s ok — please, let her be ok.

Lana isn’t quite sure what made her call him, even less sure what made him pick up. Yet here she is, waiting on the corner of her street, shoulders still shaking. She’s scared and alone — sometimes, youth has a way of being too much. She doesn’t know what crumbled, but something did. In the tender hours when the sun is asleep, her guards have fallen to him. The skirt of her dress sways with the wind.

Pressure weighs on their shoulders. Failure haunts them like a Victorian ghost. Too young to know the maps of the world, too old to be forgiven. She cries in his hold, silent sobs raking her body. His arms tighten, he knows.

They let go, warmth lingering on their fingertips. Side by side, they head towards the lake. The streets lay empty, and he could see the city lights glow in her watery orbs. They talk — conversation has always flowed between them, a little too easy for friends.

As with most of their walk so far, the lakeside is vacant, save for a stray cardinal. The stars shone exceptionally bright, especially for the dull winter sky it adorns. She turns to him, eyes bright for the first time that night. He smiles, eyes crinkling. Has she always been this pretty?

In the distance, the cardinal sings. They feel their strings tug, the brilliant red shivers before it dances to life. Her gaze snaps up to find his, neck almost hurting from the sudden movement. A ringing: their ringing.