THYME'S POV:
The predawn light seeped into my dorm room, painting the ceiling a dull grey. The distant sounds of traffic slowly replaced the dream's symphony of sizzling woks and happy food-creatures, but the suffocatingly sweet aroma of pastries lingered, as did the warmth of a phantom breath on my face.
"No. No, no, no, no, NO!" I bolted upright, clutching my pillow. The dream replayed in my mind with horrifying clarity. Not the usual vague, pleasant food fantasies. This was sharp, intrusive. The impossible feast in a deserted restaurant, the one I'd been to with Meta. And then him. Meta. Standing there, impossibly, ludicrously, in nothing but a crisp white apron, holding a gleaming plate of pasta. The memory sent a fresh jolt of disbelief through me. "All of this food, and anything you want to eat, will be yours," dream-Meta had whispered, his eyes too dark, too knowing, "if you become my Boyfriend." My stomach churned, a mix of genuine hunger and pure, incandescent fury.
Me. Declaring my undying affection to Meta. Not because he was kind, or funny, or even remotely less annoying. But because he could create delicious food. "I wanted to make him my boyfriend… because of food?!" I roared internally, my voice barely a whisper in the quiet room. "That bastard! He's hypnotizing me! Even in my dreams, I'm getting tricked by his food offers! He's turning me into a food-obsessed maniac!"
I threw my pillow across the room in disgust. This was beyond unacceptable. This was an affront to my very being. This was… Meta's fault.
When I turned my head towards my clock, it was already 7:30. My alarm hadn't rung at all. "Shit, I'm going to be late!" I tried to immediately stand, but the blanket wrapped around my feet caused me to lose my balance and smash my face directly onto the floor. "Urggg... That hurts," I groaned, pushing myself up as quickly as possible despite the throbbing pain. Being late to class was a bigger concern.
I scrambled to the kitchen, the scent of stale coffee from yesterday's pot filling the air. My stomach rumbled, a deep, persistent ache that echoed the dream's promise. I grabbed a frying pan, my mind still reeling, and started cracking eggs for a quick scramble. As the oil sizzled, catching the light, my thoughts drifted back to Meta, to that damned apron, to the food. The heat from the stove intensified the phantom warmth on my face from his proximity in the dream. My hands trembled slightly as I stirred the eggs.
And then, a vivid, unwelcome flash. Not a dream, but a waking nightmare. Meta's face, inches from mine, his lips parting, his eyes holding that intense, possessive gleam. The scent of his skin, a warm, clean musk, filled my head. The implicit promise of the kiss was overwhelming, terrifying. No. My breath hitched. I slammed the pan down, eggs spitting and sizzling angrily. What was wrong with me? Why was my mind replaying that?!
I forced myself to finish breakfast, though every bite felt like chalk. I had to clear my head. A shower. Cold water. That would do it. I practically ran to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the lingering phantom sensations of Meta's presence.
After the shower, the cool water doing little to calm the frantic beat of my heart, I grabbed my phone. A new message. It was from my sister.
"Happy Birthday, Me! Hope you can make it home this weekend. Mom and Dad are asking about you."
My stomach churned. Return home? For her birthday? A polite, practiced lie formed on my tongue even before my fingers moved.
"Can't make it, chanee. Swamped with studies. Tell them I said happy birthday."
The moment I hit 'send,' a wave of crushing familiarity washed over me. It wasn't the heat of the shower that made my skin prickle, but a sudden, chilling coldness that settled deep in my bones. It was the absolute silence that followed the message, the unspoken weight of their expectation, their disappointment. It was the same coldness that had seeped into every corner of my life, a constant reminder of how easily love could be withdrawn, how conditional acceptance could be. It was the very thing that had made me promise myself I would never reject anyone, never give them a reason to turn away. And now, the dream, Meta, the possibility of him, felt like another heavy, unforgivable transgression. This is not acceptable. Not him. Not like this. You will lose everything. The phantom taste of ashes returned. The fear wasn't just of being tricked; it was of losing the fragile thread of what little family connection I had left.
I hadn't even had time to iron my uniform, so it was a wrinkled mess. I ignored it, heading straight to the bathroom for a quick shower before throwing on my crumpled clothes. Time was ticking, so I ran as fast as I could.
When I arrived at the bus stop, most of the students I passed were staring at me strangely. Some were whispering, their words too low for me to catch. What the hell is happening? I wondered, but decided to ignore it for now. The bus arrived on time, and I successfully boarded.
Upon entering the university campus, the stares intensified. Students continued to gaze and whisper, and it truly confused me. Was it about my wrinkled uniform? Or something else? I desperately wanted to know, but I couldn't just ask them directly. University life, with its larger campus and more diverse student body, had only meant more people to spread rumors, more eyes to scrutinize. It felt like a spotlight had been turned up even brighter. The whispers, the strange looks – they were a familiar, unwelcome chorus, but now they carried a new, unsettling weight. It felt heavier, more widespread, as if something significant had happened, something everyone knew about but me. The usual "too cute" or "too vanilla" judgments had morphed into something colder, more pointed. I could feel their eyes dissecting me, each whisper a tiny knife prick. It was like walking through a minefield of judgment, though I felt blind to its specific threats. All I could do was keep moving, feigning indifference, trying to outrun the invisible current of gossip that seemed to swirl around me.
I successfully reached the lecture hall just before our professor showed up. Dom and Lance waved, catching my eye, and I immediately went straight to them. There was something odd about their expressions the moment I sat down, and that's when they started talking.
"Thyme, what happened yesterday?" Lance immediately asked, his usual chill replaced by a worried furrow in his brow.
"What do you mean, 'what happened'? I don't get you," I replied, my voice probably too casual for the dread already stirring in my gut.
"Lance means this," Dom interjected, his phone already out and thrust into my face. The screen showed a picture of me and Meta eating in a restaurant, clear as day.
"What! How did you have this picture?" My confusion wrestled with a sudden, clammy nervousness.
"It was posted on a page called 'Uni Pue-uk'," Dom explained, scrolling through the comments.
"Wait, the page name is Uni Taro?" I genuinely thought I'd misheard. Why would it be called that?
"What planet did you come from, Thyme?" Dom exclaimed, rolling his eyes. "It's where all the snoopy stuff gets posted, the gossip that everyone pretends not to read! You know, the 'Pue-uk' page!"
"Both of you, stop. We're getting off track here," Lance cut in, his gaze fixed on me.
"Why were you with Meta yesterday, Thyme?"
Shit. Lance looked so serious. How the hell was I supposed to tell them I'd followed a complete stranger just because he offered me a free meal? The memory of that delicious food, the one I'd even dreamed about, brought a fresh wave of mortification.
"Have your m..." Dom started, ever the tactless one, but Lance clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Just answer my question, Thyme. You are now a hot topic in the university. Based on the comments, you are Meta's boyfriend." My eyes widened in disbelief.
"What the... are you serious? Did they mistake me for that bastard's boyfriend?" Lance and Dom nodded, their expressions grim. I didn't want to lie, but I was too embarrassed to admit I was tempted by free, delicious food.
"Thyme, we are waiting for yo..." Lance's words trailed off as our professor entered the lecture hall. I was saved, but only for a few hours. How could I possibly come up with a reasonable explanation without revealing my utter idiocy to them?
The class ended. I practically bolted from the lecture hall, my mind still a frantic blank. I hadn't come up with a single plausible explanation. The moment I stepped outside, a wall of girls stood waiting, their faces serious, some glaring with open irritation. This wasn't the usual university crowd; this was an organized front. My "fresh start" was quickly dissolving into the same old nightmare, but amplified. The casual glances from earlier had been a mere prelude to this confrontation. University life, with its larger campus and more diverse student body, had only meant more people to spread rumors, more eyes to scrutinize, and more, seemingly coordinated, groups to corner me. This wasn't just individual admirers or haters; this felt like a full-blown, campus-wide conspiracy against my peace.
One girl, who seemed to be their leader, stepped forward. "Are you Khun Ahan Yimgin?"
Wait! What? How did they know my full name? This situation was far more serious than I'd anticipated. My full name was only on official records, not something casual acquaintances knew. The sheer scale of their information meant this wasn't just idle gossip. My heart hammered a new rhythm of alarm.