THYME'S POV:
I woke up, not with a jolt, but with a slow, agonizing crawl back from the abyss. The air was cool, the silence profound, a stark contrast to the chaotic storm that had erupted inside my mind. My eyes, still gritty with unshed tears, fluttered open to an unfamiliar ceiling—smooth, cream-colored, with a soft, recessed light. Disorientation hit first, a cold, empty echo, before the sheer weight of why I was here slammed into me.
My gaze drifted down. Meta. He was slumped on the floor beside the bed, his dark head pillowed on the mattress edge, chest rising and falling in a deep, even rhythm. Sleep. He was asleep. But the nightmare that had been unearthed, the raw, screaming memory, pulsed behind my eyelids with unbearable clarity. "I don't have a gay son." "Disgusting child." "No one will love that child." My mother's voice, Grandma's heartbroken sobs, the entire, devastating tableau replayed with brutal precision.
A choked sound clawed its way up my throat, but I bit it back, hard, tasting blood. I couldn't make a sound. Not now. All I wanted was to scream, to rip my chest open and tear out the throbbing ache that was my heart. It was too much. The memory was a searing brand, charring away every fragile comfort I had built around my amnesia. I wished for oblivion again, wished I could sink back into the darkness where those words couldn't reach me. My chest convulsed, a silent, painful heave. Every muscle in my body screamed, vibrating with suppressed agony. But if I moved, if I whimpered, if a single sound escaped, Meta would wake up. And I couldn't face him like this. Not when I was so utterly, irrevocably broken.
How long did I lie there, silently drowning in my own tears? Minutes? An hour? My vision swam, but the tears flowed inward, scorching a path down my throat, a bitter, salty offering to a past I desperately wanted to rebury. I watched him, Meta, curled there, a silent sentinel. And then, I saw it—a subtle tremor in his eyelid, a flicker that was too deliberate for true sleep. He wasn't asleep. He was awake. Pretending. Letting me cry. Letting me bleed this pain in the dark, unseen, unheard. A strange, fierce gratitude bloomed amidst the desolation, a fragile warmth against the cold. He understood. He saw me, truly saw the broken mess I was, and chose to offer the silent space I desperately needed.
"Thank you," I rasped, my voice a dry, raw whisper, and gently, with a trembling hand, I tapped his shoulder.
He stirred, slowly lifting his head, his dark eyes blinking against the soft light before they fixed on mine. Concern, deep and unmistakable, etched his features. His gaze was soft, unwavering, searching.
"Are you feeling well now? You collapsed earlier when we were heading to my car." His voice was a low murmur, laced with kindness, utterly devoid of judgment. He didn't ask why my eyes were swollen, why my throat was tight. He acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, only concern for my physical well-being. The quiet understanding, his unspoken permission to fall apart, made a fresh wave of tears sting my eyes. Gratitude, so profound it was almost painful, surged through me. But beneath it, a new fear began to unfurl, insidious and cold. The worries that had overwhelmed me before—the declaration, the video, the looming conversation—they were back, sharper now, magnified by this fresh wound. I was more scared than ever.
"I'm doing okay now, thank you for helping me," I managed, forcing a calm I didn't feel into my voice, every muscle screaming with the effort. "But where am I?" The question was genuine curiosity, but also a desperate, transparent attempt to change the subject, to veer away from the precipice of that unspoken conversation about the video. I had to avoid it, just for a little while longer. I wasn't ready.
"You're in my condo." The words were expected, yet they hit me like a physical blow. His condo. A jolt of pure fire shot through my veins, my thoughts scattering like startled birds. My brain screamed red alerts, warning me away from the treacherous territory of being here, alone with him.
"T...Thank you for letting me rest here," I stammered, scrambling to throw my legs over the side of the bed, desperate to put distance between us, between me and the conversation I knew was coming. "I can go back to my dormitory now."
But his hand shot out, his fingers closing around my arm, not hard, but firm, stopping my escape. "Wait, Thyme. I want to talk to you about something."
My mind raced, a frantic search for any escape route, any plausible excuse. "So...sorry, but can we talk next time?" I tried to tug my arm free, pulling against his grip, a pathetic struggle against his unyielding strength. His eyes, so gentle moments before, now held a steely resolve.
"I know you're running away," he said, his voice low, steady, but with an edge that cut through my panic. "I know you know what I want to talk about. But we need to discuss it now, so we can stop the false rumors."
False rumors. The words crashed over me, a tidal wave that ripped the ground from beneath my feet. They hit me with the force of a physical impact, stealing the air from my lungs. False rumors. That meant he wanted to stop them. He wanted to sever our connection. To cut ties. A cold, alien dread bloomed in my chest, expanding, suffocating me. We weren't in a relationship, I knew that. I was still drowning in the chaos of understanding my own bewildering feelings for him, feelings I hadn't even dared to name. But I didn't want to end this. This fragile, confusing connection we had. I was lost in a storm of confusion, yet I knew, with a certainty that burned, that this would hurt. This would tear me apart.
Meta was still speaking, his voice a low hum, but my ears became deaf to his words, his voice fading into a distant, muffled roar. My eyes, already blurred with unshed tears, started to cloud over completely, the room dissolving into indistinct shapes and colors. My chest ached, a deep, hollow pang, resonating with the pain of the just-remembered past. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, streamed from my eyes, betraying my desperate attempts at composure. I couldn't let him see my face, not now, not when I couldn't hold back the torrent. I was too afraid. Too afraid to be rejected. Too afraid to lose him.
But why was I afraid? What was he to me, truly? A stranger I'd known for only a few days? An acquaintance with whom I'd shared my first, and then my second, earth-shattering kiss? My body began to shake uncontrollably, a violent tremor that started in my core and rattled every limb. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my lips together, fighting desperately to suppress any sound, any sob that might betray the complete, terrifying breakdown happening inside me. I couldn't let him hear me crying. I couldn't. Not now.
The muffled roar of Meta's voice, a distant drone seconds ago, slammed back into my ears with the force of a tidal wave. "Thyme." It was just my name, yet it pierced through the haze of my breakdown, cutting clean through the silence of the room. He was there, closer now, a warm weight settling beside me on the mattress. There was no hiding. Not anymore.
My hands, slick with tears, flew to cover my face, a pathetic shield against the gaze I knew would be filled with questions, with pity. But before I could fully burrow into the dark, his fingers, strong yet surprisingly gentle, closed over my wrists. He peeled my hands away from my tear-streaked face, his touch a shocking, electric current. My breath hitched, caught in my throat.
Then, something utterly, breathtakingly unexpected happened. His head lowered, slowly, deliberately, until his lips brushed mine. A feather-light touch, hesitant, tentative, yet it ignited a wildfire beneath my skin. My eyes, wide and disbelieving, stared into the blurred expanse of the unfamiliar room. He was kissing me. Meta was kissing me. The sharp, searing ache in my chest, the one born of ancient, forgotten wounds, miraculously began to recede, melting away like ice in a sudden sunbeam. In its place, a strange, dizzying warmth bloomed, radiating outward, making my limbs feel heavy, languid. My heart, which had been a leaden stone in my chest moments ago, now hammered against my ribs with a frantic, exhilarating rhythm. Thump-thump, thump-thump-thump.
The normal reaction, the ingrained reflex of self-preservation, would have been to push him away. To shove him back, to create distance, to run from this terrifying intimacy that promised both solace and potential devastation. But a profound, almost terrifying peace began to settle over me, spreading through my veins like a calming balm. In his touch, in the soft pressure of his lips, I found a strange, desperate comfort. I felt... safe. Safer than I had in years, maybe ever. As if, if I just stayed here, entwined with him, nothing could truly hurt me. I would be safe if I was always with him.
The thought, wild and illogical, silenced every instinct to retreat. Instead of pushing, I leaned in, my trembling arms winding around his neck, my fingers burying themselves in the soft hair at his nape. A silent surrender. My lips, still wet with tears, parted slightly, inviting him deeper. The kiss deepened, becoming less hesitant, more passionate, a desperate, unspoken dialogue between two souls. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against my mouth, sending shivers cascading down my spine.
His hands, warm and seeking, slid from my arms, tracing a path down my sides, past the hem of my shirt. They slipped underneath the fabric, finding the bare skin of my back. The sudden contact, skin against skin, sent another jolt through me, a thrilling shock. His fingertips, feather-light at first, began to caress, to explore, sending delicious shivers racing over my entire body. I should be ashamed. I should be disgusted with myself for allowing this, for wanting this, for melting into him with such alarming speed. But what was I supposed to do? This was new. This was uncharted territory, a landscape of raw sensation and dizzying emotion I had never traversed.
Could this… this dizzying warmth, this terrifying peace that silenced every instinct to retreat… could this be what they called love? The question flickered through my stunned mind, fragile and impossible. It felt absurd, irrational, to even consider it for someone I'd only just met. But why did I need to question it when the answer was already burning in my veins? Perhaps I had fallen in love with him, and I was just too terrified to acknowledge this complicated, vulnerable feeling.
We broke apart then, gasping, our breaths ragged, syncing in the hushed stillness of the room. Our eyes met. His, dark and intense, held a terrifying depth I couldn't decipher. They were both predatory and gentle, a dangerous, intoxicating combination. Under that gaze, I felt myself truly melting, dissolving under the heat of his scrutiny, exposed and vulnerable.
Then, without a word, he lowered his head again, claiming my lips once more. This kiss was different. It was a hungry, demanding kiss, devouring, consuming. My world narrowed to the taste of him, the feel of his lips, the desperate cadence of our joined breaths. I felt myself being utterly consumed, devoured by him, and yet, I let him. I welcomed it. My teeth accidentally grazed his lip, a sharp, metallic tang of blood blooming on my tongue, but he didn't falter. He simply deepened the pressure, his groan echoing in my chest. His hands, now more insistent, began to caress my back with a fiery intensity, his thumbs tracing desperate patterns on my bare skin. And then, slowly, deliberately, his fingers hooked under the hem of my shirt, beginning to lift it.
Wait. A cold shard of awareness pierced through the haze of pleasure. This is not good. I have to stop him. The thought, sharp and clear, jolted me back to reality. I wasn't mentally prepared for this, for whatever "next thing" this was leading to. The intoxicating peace shattered, replaced by a fresh surge of raw panic. With a sudden, desperate surge of strength, I pushed Meta away.
"So... sorry," I whispered, the apology tasting like ash on my tongue. My chest heaved, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
Meta recoiled, his eyes wide, startled, but then a flicker of understanding softened their intensity. "I'm sorry, Thyme," he said, his voice husky, strained. "I was not able to control myself. Can you please excuse me for a moment? I need to go to the bathroom." He sprang up, his movements quick, almost desperate. My gaze, wide and still reeling, inadvertently dropped to his pants, noting the undeniable, insistent bulge. Oh. Right. My mind replayed the mortifying image of the scarred Meta, a chaotic scramble of embarrassment and shock. He was already halfway across the room, disappearing into an adjoining door.
I was mortified. Embarrassed beyond words. But beneath the humiliation, a frantic, chaotic question began to burn in my mind. What did that kiss mean? He was supposed to be cutting the connection between us, ending the rumors. Why was he making everything so impossibly complicated?
Was Meta... was he feeling the same confusing, terrifying thing I was feeling towards him?