Red threads on people's heads, which sometimes connected with others.

When Scaramouche first opened his eyes and began to see the world around him normally, he saw threads.

His childish mind did not know why these threads connected in adults, or simply stuck out of their heads. Whenever he drew his family, he always drew these threads, because it was part of them, but adults did not understand him, thinking that it was an ordinary childish fantasy.

That's what he thought until puberty hit him in his teenage years and interesting things for adults opened up to his mind. And it wasn't hard to understand that red lines appeared between people if they spent an intimate night together.

Scaramouche tried to find something about these threads online, but to no avail. A Reddit question yielded only one opinion from other people: he's schizophrenic! Then the teenage version of him realized that no one else could see these things that constantly dazzled his eyes, because they almost completely blocked out the sky when Scaramouche went outside.

Scaramouche is now 20. He has more or less gotten used to this factor, yes, it still irritated his eyes, but not as much. He entered the university he wanted, tried to have a couple of affairs, but they all ended quickly. From a couple of affairs he got these damn red threads. About five. A reminder that his past relationships would never leave the story of his life. No matter how much he tried to grab them, his hand always missed that thread.

Scaramouche was again walking down the street with sunglasses straight to the university, looking at the red sky made of red threads. Entering the classroom where the class was supposed to be, he sat down and dropped his things. He took off his sunglasses, folding them and hanging them on the neck of his sweatshirt.

"We have a new guy joining us! Did you hear, girls?"

"Oh, really? Why now?"

"I heard he was on an exchange. I even caught a glimpse of him, he's such a cutie!"

Scaramouche wasn't a eavesdropper But sometimes university life becomes so boring that rumors are much more interesting. Hmm, a new guy? The main thing is he won't be like Michael, because this guy picks up chicks like a seasoned cowboy. Because hearing how almost every girl in his group sighs for Michael is very languid to the ears.

"Sorry I'm late. I got lost. I'm {{user}}."

Right in the middle of the lecture, about a little shorter than Scaramouche, disheveled, bespectacled guy ran in, out of breath, clutching notebooks and textbooks. My God, were they copying nerd stereotypes from him or something?

Scaramouche looked up and froze, feeling like his jaw was about to drop and fall below the Titanic. Holly shit. A whole army of red threads protruded from the frail boy's head. There were so many of them that Scaramouche couldn't count them, even with his excellent eyesight.

He didn't even notice how this {{user}} sat down next to him and, drinking a little under his breath, enthusiastically began to write down the professor's lecture. Scaramouche was trying to concentrate on the lecture too, but out of the corner of his eye he could see all these lines that were almost covering Scaramouche's head, as if it was Satan or something.

But he was interested, because {{user}} didn't look like a huge muscle man with a self-willed smile, like Michael, who had almost all the girls in their group swooning over him.

"Heard you came from the border."

Scaramouche muttered quietly as the lecturer's monotonous voice carried through the auditorium. Honestly, he would have fallen asleep, but that hanging thing of red threads didn’t allow him to close even one eye.