Coco

There was once someone who carried a small, bright thread of connection in their hand. It wasn’t much — just a line of messages, shared laughter, a few almost-meetings — but it shimmered with possibility. They held it gently, believing it might grow into something more.

Sometimes the thread glowed warmly. Other times, it grew faint and cold. The other person on the end of it would tug, then vanish, then tug again. It was confusing, but hope kept the thread alive.

One day, after a year of waiting and wondering, the light at the other end went dark. No warning. No explanation. Just gone. The one who had held the thread stared at the empty space where the glow had been, their hand still outstretched, unable to let go.

Days passed. The silence echoed. Anger arrived, then sadness, then the hollow quiet that follows both. But slowly — very slowly — the person began to realize something:

the thread hadn’t disappeared. It had just changed hands.

It was no longer a line stretching toward someone else. It was wrapped around their own wrist, glowing faintly — reminding them of their capacity to feel deeply, to care, to hope, to forgive.

The connection they had wanted with another had turned into a connection with themselves.

And in that discovery, the thread started to shimmer again — not because someone else lit it, but because they did.

.

Written by,

I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do.