DREAM

THYME'S POV (Age 18):

Early morning light bled through the blinds, painting my dorm ceiling a dirty ash. The low hum of city traffic started drowning out the audio of my dream—the crackle of hot woks and the cheerful buzzing of food-creatures—yet that heavy, sugary smell of fresh pastries still hung in the air. So did the warmth of a breath on my face.

"No. No, no, no, no, NO!" I shot upright, my heart hammering against my chest as I hugged my pillow to myself like armor. The images from my dream flashed behind my eyes, agonizingly vivid. This wasn't one of my usual vague food fantasies. This was intrusive. The impossible feast in that deserted restaurant I’d been to with Meta. And then him. Meta. Standing there in nothing but a crisp white apron, holding a plate of pasta. The memory sent a fresh jolt of incredulity through me. "All of this, and whatever else you desire, is yours," the phantom Meta had murmured, his gaze pitch-black and far too perceptive, "if you agree to be my boyfriend." My gut twisted, twisting a genuine pang of starvation together with hot, absolute fury.

Me. Wanting to be with Meta. Not because he was nice or funny. But because of food? "He's getting inside my brain!" I screamed internally, though the words barely squeaked past my lips. "In my dreams now? With food? He has no right to do this! He's making me look like a completely food-crazed lunatic!" I hurled my pillow across the bedroom with a frustrated groan, wincing as it hit the far wall with a pathetic smack. This was his fault.

My eyes flew to the clock. 7:30. The damn alarm had failed me. "Shit, I'm late!" I scrambled to leap out of bed, but the sheets tangled around my ankles like a trap. My momentum sent me pitching forward, and I face-planted directly into the floorboards with a heavy smack. "Ugh... that hurts," I groaned, pushing myself up. But the stinging on my face was entirely overshadowed by the sheer dread of missing class.

I rushed into the small kitchenette, painfully knocking my shin against a misplaced sneaker. The bitter scent of old coffee lingered in the tight space while my stomach roared in complaint. I rummaged for a frying pan—my normally quick hands feeling thick and uncoordinated—and slammed the eggs against the counter way too hard, shooting a sharp fragment of shell straight into the mix. Normally, I would have taken the time to carefully fish it out, but right now? I didn't care. As the oil crackled, my thoughts drifted to Meta, to that wretched apron. The heat from the stove was the spectral heat of his breath on my skin.

And then, a sudden, unwelcome flash. Meta's face, inches from my own, his lips parting, his eyes blazing with that wild, possessive gleam. I swear I could actually catch his scent—a crisp, radiating warmth. No. My lungs seized up like I took a blow to the gut. I slammed the skillet down violently onto the burner, sending raw egg splattering everywhere. Get out of my head! What was wrong with me? Why was my mind insisting on reliving that?!

I made myself swallow the food, despite the fact that it felt like chewing on dry dust. I desperately needed to reset my brain. A cold shower. That should fix this. I practically sprinted to the shower, needing the freezing water to scrub the phantom sensation of Meta off my skin.

Stepping out of the bathroom with my pulse still thumping, I snatched up my mobile. A new message. My sister.

"Happy Birthday to me! Really hope you're coming home this weekend. Mom and Dad keep bringing you up."

My insides instantly twisted into a heavy, painful knot. Go home? For her birthday? A polite, practiced lie was available within a second, my thumbs already composing the familiar excuse before I consciously decided.

"Can't do it, chanee. Drowning in coursework. Wish them a happy birthday for me."

The second the message delivered, the quiet of my dorm crashed down on me like a physical weight. It was a known silence. I was a little boy all over again, standing frozen in the frame of my dad's office, tightly gripping a runner-up culinary trophy. "Did you get first place?" he had questioned, his eyes never even leaving the paperwork scattered in front of him. The word "no" lodged itself in my airway like a heavy stone. The silence that followed was a lesson. Love was something you worked for. Acceptance came with conditions. The same bone-deep chill seeped into me now. The dream, Meta, all of it… it was like another enormous, unforgivable error. This is not all right. Not him. Not like this. You will lose everything. My deepest fear wasn't just about being manipulated; it was the sheer terror of snapping the last, delicate string that tied me to the remaining pieces of my family.

My school uniform looked completely trashed, but the clock was ticking. I hastily dragged the creased fabric over my head and bolted out the door.

At the bus stop, I noticed students gazing at me. Whispering. What the heck now? I thought, trying to pull my collar up a little and tune it out. The bus arrived, and I got on.

On campus, the stares were worse. More people, more whispers. Was my uniform rumpled? Was there dirt smeared across my cheek? I wanted to speak up, but the questions died in my windpipe. The hushed tones were the usual background noise, yet today they felt entirely different. It felt like some massive, catastrophic event had dropped, and I was the only idiot on campus left out of the loop. Their stares bore into me with actual physical weight, every muttered comment slicing into me like a scalpel. I forced myself to put one foot in front of the other, burning holes into the pavement with my eyes, pretending I was completely invisible.

I reached the lecture hall just before the professor. Dom and Lance waved me over. No sooner had I taken a seat than I noticed the odd looks on their faces.

"Thyme, what happened yesterday?" Lance asked immediately, leaning forward tensely, his usual casual slouch missing, his voice strained with concern.

"What are you talking about? Absolutely nothing happened," I shot back, forcing a breezy tone while a cold pit of dread hollowed out my stomach.

"'He intends to," Dom stated, rolling his eyes somewhat before shoving his phone right in my face with zero subtlety. The screen showed a very good picture of me and Meta eating at a restaurant.

"What! Where did you get this?" My confusion fought with a sudden, sweaty panic.

"It's on 'Uni Pue-uk'," Dom said, already scrolling through comments.

"Uni Taro?" I asked, actually mishearing.

"'What planet are you from, Thyme?'" Dom rolled his eyes so hard I feared they'd get stuck. "'It's the gossip page! 'Pue-uk'! Seriously.'"

"'Both of you, stop," Lance cut in, his voice low and serious, his usually casual eyes fixed intently on me. "Why were you with Meta yesterday?"

Shit. His expression was dead serious—giving me that disappointed older brother look—and my insides plummeted. How on earth was I supposed to justify following a random guy just because he bribed me with a free meal? Remembering that tasty meal gave me a new wave of humiliation.

"Did you guys s—" Dom began, a wicked smirk flashing across his face, but Lance moved with lightning speed, slamming his palm over Dom's mouth to shut down whatever humiliating question was about to slip out.

"Just answer, Thyme. You're the hottest topic on campus. You're Meta's boyfriend, if the comments are to be believed."

My eyes widened. "What the. are you kidding me? They believe I'm that guy's boyfriend?" Lance and Dom just solemnly nodded. I did not wish to lie, but the shame was too great.

"Thyme, we're waiting." Lance's voice trailed off as our professor entered. I was off the hook, but only for the next hour. How was I going to spin this narrative without looking like a total clown?

Class had ended. I made a quick exit out of the hall, my mind still a blank. The moment I stepped out of the building, a contingent of girls was waiting. Not the usual group, but an organized line. This was a confrontation.

One girl, their representative, stepped forward. "Are you Khun Ahan Yimgin?"

My pulse hammered violently against my chest, desperately trying to break out of my ribcage. My full name? A chill of cold fear ran through me. How did they know my full name? It was only on official documents. This was a lot more serious than I'd thought. This wasn't gossip; they'd done some research.

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2030'S THYME'S POV (Age 23):

I used to hate those old nightmares—the visions where he felt so incredibly real, I could swear he was breathing right next to my ear. Back then, they felt like twisted pranks, chipping away at the emotional defenses I had worked so hard to construct. Now? I would give everything, beg every silent deity in existence, to experience just a single one of those dreams tonight. Because sleep isn't rest now. It's just. reliving it. The blood. The screaming. The exact second everything I loved was destroyed. Those flashbacks just orbit me like scavengers, picking apart the bloody scraps of who I used to be. I jolt awake every single night, gasping for air, gagging on the phantom flavor of copper and stomach acid, my cheeks drenched in a salty, miserable grief. This penance has emptied me. I only want to wake up with my eyes open to that former, simpler time, when the only pain I knew was yearning for him in dreams I called silly.