DREAM

THYME'S POV:

The predawn light seeped into my dorm room, tinting the ceiling a grimy grey. The distant rumble of traffic was replacing the sounds in my dream—sizzling woks, the hum of happy food-creatures—but the sweet, suffocating aroma of baked goods lingered. So did the warmth of a breath on my face.

"No. No, no, no, no, NO!" I sat up straight, heart pounding against my ribs, clinging to my pillow like a shield. 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 incredulity through me. "All this, and anything else you want, will be yours," dream-Meta had whispered, his eyes too dark, too knowing, "if you'll be my Boyfriend." My stomach churned, a sickening knot of real hunger tied up with pure, burning anger.

Me. Wanting to be with Meta. Not because he was nice or funny. But because of food? "He's messing with my head!" I shrieked inwardly, my actual voice barely above a whisper. "In my dreams now? 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 with a strangled cry, watching it strike the opposite wall with an unsatisfying thud. This was his fault.

My eyes flew to the clock. 7:30. My alarm clock hadn't gone off. "Shit, I'm late!" I tried to jump out of bed, but the blanket entwined around my feet like a nasty snake. I lost my balance and my face hit the floor with a nice thud. "Urggg. that hurts," I said, picking myself up. The smarting in my cheek was nothing compared to the panic of being late.

I hurried to the kitchen, banging my shin on a stray shoe. The stale smell of yesterday's coffee hung in the air. My stomach was growling. I dug in the drawer, my usually agile fingers clumsy, for a frying pan, my hands still shaking a bit, and cracked the eggs onto the counter with too much force, firing a jagged piece of shell into the bowl. Usually, I'd pluck it out laboriously, but just then? 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 could almost smell his skin, a warm, clean musk. No. My breath hitched as though I'd been punched. I banged the pan down hard on the stove, the eggs flying in outrage. Get out of my head! What was wrong with me? Why was my mind insisting on reliving that?!

I forced myself to eat breakfast, even though everything 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 off the feeling of Meta's presence.

My heart still racing out of the shower, 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 knotted into a tight, aching ball. 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 make it, chanee. Swamped. Tell them I said happy birthday."

The moment I hit send, the silence in the room seemed to weigh on me more heavily. It was a known silence. I was a kid again, and I was 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 the documents on his desk. The "no" was a boulder in my throat. 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. The terror wasn't merely of being misled; it was of losing the fragile thread connecting me to what little family I had left.

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

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? Did I have a smudge on my face? I might have asked, but the words got caught in my throat. The whispers were the same old chorus, but today they were not. It was as though something earth-shattering had happened, something that all of them knew but me. I could feel their eyes on me like physical fingers, each whisper a little knife thrust under my skin. I just needed to keep on walking, gazing fixedly at the cracks on the sidewalk, make-believe not seeing.

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 referring to? Nothing took place," I replied, trying to be casual, but a ball of fear was already forming in my belly.

"'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 face was so serious, like an older brother who's disappointed in me, and my stomach dropped. How could I ever explain that I'd gone with a stranger who promised me free food? Remembering that tasty meal gave me a new wave of humiliation.

"'Do you ha." Dom started, a mischievous glint in his eye, but Lance acted fast, clapping a hand over Dom's mouth before he could finish the no doubt embarrassing question.

"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 saved, but only temporarily. How was I supposed to explain this without making a complete fool of myself?

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 heart thudded against my ribs as though it was trying to escape. 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:

I despised those dreams back then—the ones where he'd appear so vividly it felt as if he was standing beside me. They were cruel jokes at the time, tearing at the walls I'd tried so desperately to build. Now? I'd do anything, pray to any deaf god, for just one of those dreams again. Because sleep isn't rest now. It's just. reliving it. The blood. The screaming. The moment it all shattered. Those memories circle like vultures now, tearing at what's left of me. I awaken each night, strangling, with the spectral taste of bile and blood in my mouth, my face wet with tears that I taste on my lips like sorrow and salt. 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.