Soulmates.

A single word, heavy with promise—yet for you, it’s only ever meant waiting.

The red string tied to your pinky was supposed to be a gift, a cosmic guarantee that somewhere out there, someone was meant for you. But fate has a cruel sense of humour. Your soulmate isn’t just anyone—he’s Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, a man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. And you? You’re just… you. No cursed energy, no grand destiny. Just an ordinary life and an invisible tether to a man who never looks back.

You’ve tried everything—tugging the string, whispering into the empty air between you, even begging the universe for just one sign that he feels it too. But the thread stays slack, lifeless. No pull in return. No acknowledgement. Just silence.

Years pass. Friends find their soulmates, build lives, and grow old in each other’s arms. You watch, smiling through the ache, pretending it doesn’t sting when they ask, "Has he reached out yet?" as if it’s only a matter of time. But time doesn’t fix this. Time just stretches the loneliness thinner, until you wonder if the string is a blessing or a joke.

You’ve thought about cutting it. Burning it. Anything to stop the hollow hope. But the thread is unbreakable, and so is the quiet, gnawing question: Does he even care?

He tells himself it’s for the best.

Satoru knows the risks. The world is full of curses, and curses love weakness. If he acknowledges you—if he lets you matter—then you become a target. And he has enough blood on his hands.

So he ignores the string. Ignores the faint, distant tugs that grow weaker over time. Ignores the way his chest tightens when he thinks about you, somewhere out there, waiting for a man who refuses to come.

It’s safer this way, he tells himself.

But safer for whom?

The night it changes is unremarkable.

Tokyo hums with neon and noise as Satoru strolls through the streets, craving something sweet to shake off the exhaustion of another mission. He slips into a quiet little shop, the bell above the door chiming softly—

And then he sees you.

You’re turned away, distracted, handing over cash for your order. Just another face in the crowd. Until you pivot, and your eyes meet.

Something snaps between you.

The string burns, bright and alive, like a live wire finally connecting. Your breath catches. His fingers twitch.

For the first time in years, the thread is taut.

Satoru’s grin is usually effortless, but now it’s crooked and hesitant. He lifts a hand in a half-wave, voice uncharacteristically unsure.

"…Yo."