DREAM

THYME'S POV:

The predawn light seeped into my dorm room, painting the ceiling a dull grey. The distant sounds of traffic were replacing the sounds from my dream—sizzling woks, the chatter of happy food-creatures—but the sweet, suffocating smell of pastries lingered. So did the warmth of someone's breath on my face.

"No. No, no, no, no, NO!" I bolted upright, clutching my pillow. The dream replayed in my head, sharp and clear. 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 disbelief through me. "All of this, and anything else you want, will be yours," dream-Meta had whispered, his eyes too dark, too knowing, "if you become my Boyfriend." My stomach churned with a mix of real hunger and pure, hot fury.

Me. Wanting to be with Meta. Not because he was kind or funny. But because of food? "He's messing with my head!" I roared in my head, my actual voice barely a whisper. "Even in my dreams? With food? He can't do this to me! He's turning me into some kind of food-obsessed maniac!"

I threw my pillow across the room. This was all his fault.

My eyes shot to the clock. 7:30. My alarm hadn't gone off. "Shit, I'm late!" I tried to jump out of bed, but the blanket tangled around my feet. I lost my balance and my face met the floor with a solid smack. "Urggg... that hurts," I groaned, pushing myself up. The throbbing pain in my cheek was nothing compared to the panic of being late.

I scrambled to the kitchen, nearly tripping over a shoe. The stale coffee smell from yesterday hung in the air. My stomach was growling. I fumbled in the drawer for a frying pan, my hands still shaking a little, and cracked the eggs so hard a piece of shell fell in. I didn't care. As the oil sizzled, my thoughts drifted back to Meta, to that damned apron. The heat from the stove felt like the phantom warmth of his breath on my face.

Then, a vivid, unwelcome flash. Meta's face, inches from mine, his lips parting, his eyes with that intense, possessive gleam. I could almost smell his skin, a warm, clean musk. No. My breath hitched. I slammed the pan down on the stove, the eggs spitting angrily. What was wrong with me? Why did my mind keep replaying that?!

I forced myself to finish breakfast, though it all tasted like chalk. I had to clear my head. A cold shower. That would do it. I practically ran to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the feeling of Meta's presence.

After the shower, my heart still pounding, I grabbed my phone. A new message. My sister.

"Happy Birthday, Me! Hope you can make it home this weekend. Mom and Dad are asking about you."

My stomach clenched. Go home? For her birthday? A polite, practiced lie formed in my mind before my fingers even moved.

"Can't make it, chanee. Swamped. Tell them I said happy birthday."

The moment I hit send, the silence in the room felt suddenly heavier. It was a familiar quiet. I was ten again, standing in the doorway of my father's study, clutching a second-place trophy from a cooking competition. "Did you win?" he’d asked, not looking up from his papers. The "no" was a stone in my throat. The silence that followed was a lesson. Love was a prize you won. Acceptance was conditional. That same coldness seeped back into my bones. The dream, Meta, all of it… it felt like another heavy, unforgivable mistake. This is not acceptable. Not him. Not like this. You will lose everything. The fear wasn't just of being tricked; it was of losing the fragile thread connecting me to what little family I had left.

My uniform was a wrinkled mess, but there was no time. I threw on the crumpled clothes and ran.

At the bus stop, I noticed students were staring at me. Whispering. What the hell is going on now? I thought, but tried to ignore it. The bus arrived, and I got on.

On campus, the stares got worse. More people, more whispers. Was it my wrinkled uniform? Did I have something on my face? I wanted to ask but couldn't. The whispers were a familiar chorus, but today they carried a new weight. It felt like something big had happened, something everyone knew about but me. I could feel their eyes on me, each whisper a tiny knife prick. I just had to keep moving, pretending not to notice.

I made it to the lecture hall just before the professor. Dom and Lance waved me over. The moment I sat down, I saw the odd looks on their faces.

"Thyme, what happened yesterday?" Lance asked immediately, his usual chill gone.

"What do you mean? Nothing happened," I replied, trying to sound casual, but a knot of dread was already forming in my gut.

"He means this," Dom interjected, shoving his phone in my face. The screen showed a crystal-clear picture of me and Meta eating in a restaurant.

"What! How did you get this?" My confusion wrestled with a sudden, clammy nervousness.

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

"Uni Taro?" I asked, genuinely mishearing.

"What planet are you from, Thyme?" Dom rolled his eyes. "It's the gossip page! 'Pue-uk'!"

"Both of you, stop," Lance cut in, his gaze fixed on me. "Why were you with Meta yesterday?"

Shit. He looked so serious. How could I possibly tell them I'd followed a stranger because he offered me free food? The memory of that delicious meal brought a fresh wave of mortification.

"Have your m..." Dom started, but Lance clamped a hand over his mouth.

"Just answer, Thyme. You're the hottest topic at the university. According to the comments, you're Meta's boyfriend."

My eyes widened. "What the... are you serious? They think I'm that bastard's boyfriend?" Lance and Dom just nodded grimly. I didn't want to lie, but the embarrassment was overwhelming.

"Thyme, we're waiting..." Lance's words trailed off as our professor entered. I was saved, but only for a couple of hours. How was I going to explain this without sounding like a complete idiot?

The class ended. I bolted from the hall, my mind still a blank. The moment I stepped outside, a wall of girls stood waiting. This wasn't the usual crowd; this was an organized front. This was a confrontation.

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

My heart hammered. My full name? How did they know my full name? It was only on official records. This was far more serious than I thought. This wasn't just gossip; they had gone digging.

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2030'S THYME'S POV:

I used to hate those dreams—the ones where he'd appear so vividly it felt like he was right beside me. They seemed like cruel jokes back then, tearing at the walls I'd carefully built. Now? I'd give anything, pray to any silent god, just to have one of those dreams again. Because sleep isn't rest anymore. It's just... reliving it. The blood. The screaming. The moment everything shattered. Those memories circle like vultures now, picking apart what's left of me. Every night, I wake up choking, my face wet with tears that taste like salt and regret. This punishment has scraped me hollow. All I want is to open my eyes and find myself back in that simpler time, when the only pain I knew was missing him in dreams I called foolish.