Chapter 2: IDENTITY CRISIS (THE FUN KIND)
The journal sat on top of a box labeled "PERSONAL—DO NOT OPEN."
Which meant I had to open it.
I'd spent the morning going through Ethan Cole's life like an archaeologist sifting through ruins. Bank statements. Tax returns. A folder full of marketing certifications that were apparently transferable to my new brain along with everything else. The previous tenant of this body had been organized to the point of obsession—everything filed, labeled, cross-referenced.
He'd also been lonely.
No photos with friends. A contact list full of professional connections and nothing else. His last text message was to a dry cleaner confirming a pickup time. The one before that was three days earlier, telling a client he'd revised their brand positioning statement.
And then there was the journal.
Day 47 of the plan. I keep telling myself this is the right move. Leave marketing. Start something that matters. Everyone says I'm crazy—who gives up a six-figure career to become a matchmaker? But I've watched people my whole life. At parties, at meetings, at my own failed relationships. I know when two people fit. I can see it in the way they orbit each other, the angles of their bodies, the silences that mean something.
Maybe I can't find love for myself. Maybe that's not in the cards.
But I can help other people find it.
I can be good at that.
I set down the journal. My hands were shaking slightly.
"Host, relevant documentation detected. Accessing..."
A window popped up in my vision.
[Business Registration: Red Thread Matchmaking LLC]
[Status: Pending Approval (Filed 3 days pre-death)]
[Bank Balance: $8,247.83]
[Business Plan: 67% Complete]
[Note: Previous host demonstrated above-average compatibility detection through purely observational methods. System integration appears... fortuitous.]
"Fortuitous," I repeated. "That's one word for it."
The universe had dumped me into the body of a man who was about to start a matchmaking business. A man who had spent his entire life wanting to help people find love, despite never finding it himself.
And now I had a system that could literally see the strings of fate.
I finished the business plan that afternoon.
The original version was good—thorough research on NYC's matchmaking market, realistic financial projections, a clear differentiation strategy. But it was missing something. The how. How would Ethan Cole identify compatible matches? How would he know when to push two people together and when to keep them apart?
"Proprietary methodology," I wrote. "Developed through years of observational practice."
Close enough.
By evening, I needed coffee. Real coffee, not the instant garbage I'd found in the kitchen cabinet. The previous Ethan had been an instant-coffee person, which explained a lot about his life choices.
There was a coffee shop two blocks down. I found it on my phone, grabbed my wallet—$340 in cash, credit cards I'd memorized the PINs for overnight—and stepped outside.
The strings hit me immediately.
Not as overwhelming as yesterday, but present. Every person who passed me on the sidewalk trailed threads of light. Some thick, some thin. Some leading around corners to partners I couldn't see. Some tangled into knots that made my temples ache to look at.
"Host, I recommend activating Tutorial Mode. Current sensory input exceeds beginner thresholds."
"How do I do that?"
"Mental command: 'System, reduce visual intensity.'"
I thought the words. The strings faded to ghosts, still visible but no longer screaming for attention.
Better.
The coffee shop was called Brewtiful Day, which was the kind of pun that should have gotten the owner arrested. I ordered an espresso—double shot, no sugar—and took my first sip.
Oh.
Oh my God.
This body had never had good espresso before. The flavor exploded across taste buds that had apparently been waiting their entire existence for this moment. Rich. Complex. A hint of chocolate underneath the bitterness.
I might have made a noise. The barista looked concerned.
"Host appears to be experiencing heightened sensory response to caffeine. This is consistent with previous host's documented inexperience with quality coffee products. Enjoy."
"I am," I whispered to the cup. "I really, really am."
"Tutorial Quest activated. Objective: Identify three romantic connections in current location. Success criteria: 2/3 minimum accuracy."
I looked around.
The coffee shop was maybe half full. Two women at a table by the window, sharing a laptop. A man in a suit reading the Wall Street Journal. A couple—obvious couple, holding hands across a small table—with rings on their fingers. Three college-aged kids studying with the desperate energy of people who had an exam tomorrow. An older gentleman doing a crossword puzzle.
The strings were everywhere, but most led outside the building. The couple's string was thick and established, pulsing steadily between them. The two women by the window had thin threads connecting them—friendship, not romance—leading to different directions.
I focused on the college kids.
Two of them had a string between them. Faint. Barely there. But when I concentrated...
[Potential Connection Detected]
[Compatibility: 43%]
[Bond Type: Possible Secondary Match]
[Status: Unaware of Each Other's Interest]
[Note: Both parties are currently interested but assuming unrequited feelings. Accuracy of analysis: 78%]
I mentally marked them as "potential couple."
The man with the newspaper had a string that led out the door, west toward what I assumed was the financial district. Strong. Established.
[Married Connection]
[Duration: 12 years]
[Status: Stable]
"Okay." I marked him as "married."
The older gentleman with the crossword puzzle had two strings. One was gray and faded—leading nowhere I could see. The other was thin but bright, leading north.
[Primary String: Deceased connection. (Wife passed 2003)]
[Secondary String: New potential. Early stage. Leads to individual in Upper West Side. Connection not yet actualized.]
Interesting. Widower with a possible new love on the horizon.
"Tutorial assessment: Identify the romantic connections."
I took a breath.
Couple holding hands: Married. Obvious. Not a test.
College students: Two of them interested in each other. Mark as "couple in progress."
Man with newspaper: Married, wife elsewhere.
Widower: Lost spouse, new connection forming.
Women by window: Friends only.
"Submit analysis? Y/N"
Yes.
"Analyzing..."
"Result: 2/3 correct identifications among non-obvious pairings."
"Error noted: Women by window are not friends. They are siblings. String color differentiation distinguishes familial from platonic bonds. Further training recommended."
[Tutorial Quest Complete]
[Reward: 500 EXP]
[Level Up! 1 → 2]
[New Skill Unlocked: String Memory]
[String Memory: Host can now save unique string patterns for future reference. Saved patterns can be compared against new encounters to identify recurring individuals.]
I choked on my espresso.
"Warning: Incest is not a valid match category. System recommends improved pattern recognition before professional matchmaking attempts."
The barista was definitely concerned now.
I tested the new skill immediately. Focused on her—mid-twenties, tired eyes, the kind of forced cheerfulness that came from working customer service—and activated String Memory.
Her string was thin and pale pink, leading east. Brooklyn, probably. Someone she hadn't met yet.
[Pattern Saved: Barista #1]
[String Destination: Brooklyn (estimated). Connection not actualized.]
I left a bigger tip than necessary. She'd been my first successful catalogue entry. That deserved something.
Back on the street, I checked my phone. The date was September 19, 2005.
September 19.
The pilot episode of How I Met Your Mother aired on September 19, 2005. Marshall proposes to Lily. Ted meets Robin at MacLaren's. The whole story begins.
I was living in an apartment across the hall from the main characters of a television show, with a system that let me see romantic fate, on the first day of the series.
A newspaper stand displayed the date in bold letters. September 19, 2005.
"Oh no," I said out loud.
A man walking past gave me a look and kept moving.
Ted Mosby was somewhere in this city right now, about to begin the most complicated romantic journey in television history. And I was his neighbor. With the ability to see exactly who he was supposed to end up with.
Except—
I focused on my memory of meeting Marshall and Lily. Tried to recall if I'd seen any other strings connected to them, any threads leading to their roommate.
I had. Briefly. Through the apartment door when they'd gone inside.
A golden thread, impossibly bright, leading... somewhere I couldn't trace. And the system had refused to analyze it.
"Tracy Protocol Active," it had said. "Information restricted."
Ted's endgame was locked. The system wouldn't show me his soulmate until... until what? Until conditions were met?
I started walking home faster.
The sun was setting over Manhattan, turning the buildings gold and orange. Strings crisscrossed the sidewalk like a laser grid, connecting strangers to lovers they didn't know existed yet.
I had a business plan to finish. A system to learn. A life to figure out.
And somewhere in this city, Ted Mosby was about to say "I love you" on a first date and ruin everything.
The apartment building came into view. Fourth floor windows lit up against the darkening sky.
My phone buzzed. A text from a number I didn't recognize.
"Hey, you're the new guy in 4C right? Marshall gave me your number. I'm Ted, the roommate. There's a SITUATION. You seem like you give good advice. MacLaren's, 30 minutes?"
Through my window, if I squinted, I could see into apartment 4A.
A man was pacing back and forth, gesturing wildly with his phone.
His string—the golden one—pulsed like a heartbeat.
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