Three Men Played Me, I Won

I woke up screaming from the nightmare.

Sweat soaked through my pajamas, my heart pounding against my ribcage like it was trying to break free.

"Celeste! Jesus, was it that dream again?"

Aria sat up from the bed across from mine, her curls messy against her face. As my roommate at this Ivy League university, she'd grown used to my middle-of-the-night wake-up calls. But tonight's scream was clearly more intense than usual.

"Sorry, I woke you up." I wiped the sweat from my forehead, trying to steady my breathing.

"Gabriel again?" Aria turned on her bedside lamp, the warm yellow light making our dorm room feel cozier.

I nodded. Every time it was the same plot: Gabriel would gently take my hand and guide me toward an ancient mirror. Just when I thought he was going to kiss me, he would suddenly grab my hair and force me to look at my reflection—and in the mirror, I was slowly rotting away, flesh peeling off piece by piece, revealing stark white bone underneath. Gabriel would laugh softly in my ear, saying in an ice-cold voice: "This is the real you." Then he would use a sharp mirror shard to slice open my wrists, watching my blood drip onto the mirror's surface.

"Celeste, you've been having this dream since freshman year. It's been three years!" Worry crept into Aria's voice. "This is not normal. You need to see a therapist."

I knew she was right. As a psychology major, I understood better than anyone what recurring nightmares might signify. But every time I tried to analyze this dream, I'd fall into some strange fog—as if something important was being deliberately hidden.

"Maybe." I rubbed my temples. "I'll make an appointment at the campus counseling center tomorrow."

Aria nodded approvingly and lay back down. "Good girl. Can you get back to sleep now?"

"I'll try."

But I knew I wouldn't sleep again. Until dawn, I'd be staring at the ceiling, replaying that cruel pleasure in Gabriel's eyes and the image of my rotting face in the mirror.

The next afternoon, I sat in the bright counseling room at the campus mental health center.

"So, Miss Engberg, you're saying this dream has been going on for three years?" Dr. Martinez flipped through my file, frowning slightly.

"Yes. Every time it's exactly the same—the scene, the dialogue, even the expression in his eyes." I tried to maintain an objective tone, like I was describing a case study.

"In real life, have you ever met someone similar to this Gabriel?"

"No." I shook my head. "I don't even know where that name came from."

Dr. Martinez was quiet for a long moment, then leaned forward. "Celeste, what I'm about to suggest... it's not something we officially recommend at this center. It's highly unconventional and carries significant risks."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been reading some controversial case studies from European researchers about experimental relationship therapy. The theory is that by establishing a real romantic connection, you could potentially redirect or dilute the phantom attachment from your dreams." She paused, studying my reaction.

My psychology training immediately kicked in. What she was suggesting violated every principle of therapeutic boundaries I'd learned. Using romantic relationships as therapy was dangerous territory—it could easily lead to further psychological harm, manipulation, or dependency.

But three years of sleepless nights had worn me down to nothing. I was desperate enough to consider anything.

"You're essentially asking me to use someone as a test subject," I said slowly.

"I'm presenting you with a possibility," Dr. Martinez corrected, her voice careful. "One that exists in a gray area between therapy and... well, taking control of your own recovery. It's not something I can officially endorse, but given your situation..."

I was quiet, processing. As a psychology student, I knew this was reckless. But as someone who'd been trapped in the same nightmare for three years, I was willing to try anything.

"I... I need to think about it."

When I returned to the dorm, Aria was doing her makeup, getting ready to go out. She saw my expression and immediately put down her eyeshadow palette.

"How did it go? What did the doctor say?"

I told her about Dr. Martinez's suggestion. When Aria finished listening, her eyes lit up.

"Oh my God, Celeste! This is absolutely perfect!" She clapped her hands excitedly. "You know what? Jasper's been lurking around our dorm building lately, trying to get back together with me. He keeps showing up wherever he thinks I might be—downstairs by our entrance, the library, even the campus coffee shop."

Jasper Coleman. Of course I knew him—core member of the Alpha Sigma fraternity, business school golden boy, and Aria's ex-boyfriend. They'd broken up two months ago, but clearly Jasper hadn't given up.

"That guy's pretty hot," Aria continued, "might be perfect for your experiment. Plus he's desperate right now, he'd definitely agree to it. Honestly, you'd probably run into him tonight if you went to the library—he's been hanging around there a lot lately."

I frowned. "I don't want to use someone."

"Honey, this isn't using someone, this is mutual benefit. He wants to make me jealous, you need a test subject. Perfect match!"

Aria's logic was always so straightforward. But I had to admit, she had a point.

At 10 PM, I was in the rest area on the first floor of the library, reviewing cognitive psychology. The lighting here was dimmer—my preferred quiet corner. Part of me wondered if Aria had been right about Jasper frequenting this place.

I was taking notes when I heard footsteps. Looking up, I saw a guy stumbling toward me, reeking of alcohol.

It was Jasper Coleman.

He was wearing his Alpha Sigma blue jacket, his hair somewhat disheveled, clearly having come straight from some party. When he saw me, he smiled through bleary eyes.

"Hey... you're Aria's roommate, right?" He leaned against the couch next to me, reaching out to grab the corner of my shirt. "Celeste?"

I nodded. "What... what are you doing here?"

"Got wasted," he said with a bitter laugh, "wanted to find a quiet place to sit. Is Aria still pissed at me?"

I didn't answer, just stared at his face.

Then Jasper looked at me, and suddenly his eyes flashed with an expression I recognized—that cruel pleasure, just like Gabriel's when he watched my rotting reflection in the mirror.

"You look scared," he said.

A sense of destiny washed over me like a tide. Maybe Dr. Martinez was right, maybe this was exactly the "withdrawal medicine" I needed. If fate had arranged this encounter, why should I refuse?

"I can help you," I heard myself saying, my voice steadier than expected, "you need someone to take care of you."

Jasper gave me a grateful smile, but in the dim light, that smile reminded me of Gabriel—not his gentle disguise, but that disturbing pleasure when he revealed the truth.

Walking Jasper through the dorm hallway while supporting his half-conscious weight, my emotions were incredibly complex. Lucky for me, the RA downstairs was wearing headphones and completely absorbed in her laptop screen—she didn't even glance up as we passed by.

Aria was already asleep, and I let Jasper lie on the living room couch and brought him a glass of water.

"Thank you," he said groggily.

He fell asleep quickly, snoring softly. I sat in the chair beside him, keeping watch all night. Every so often, I would check to make sure he was really asleep, that this wasn't another dream.

As dawn approached, I made my decision.

Maybe Dr. Martinez's "experimental relationship therapy" really would work. Maybe this Jasper Coleman was my salvation.