META'S POV:
A cold sweat slicked my skin as a strangled gasp tore from my throat. I jolted upright, the horrifying images from the nightmare clinging to me like a shroud. That scarred face—my face—and his hands closing around Thyme's throat. The dream felt too real, a visceral warning playing on a loop in my head. Why would he want to kill him? The question hammered at me, not as a puzzle, but as a terrifying premonition.
My gaze snapped to the space beside me. Thyme. He was asleep, his chest rising and falling in a soft, steady rhythm that calmed the frantic beat of my own heart. I'd convinced him to stay, seeing the deep exhaustion and worry in his eyes. I couldn't let him go home alone like that. He was safe here. For now.
"I'll figure this out," I whispered into the quiet of the room, a solemn promise to the sleeping boy.
Sleep was impossible now. The clock on my nightstand glowed with a harsh, red 4:17 AM. I slipped out of bed, needing to put some space between myself and the lingering horror. As I stepped into the living room, a faint, metallic clatter from across the room stopped me cold. Instantly, I was on high alert, my body tensed.
A figure was by the bookshelves, his back to me, rummaging through a drawer. The messy flop of his hair, the familiar slope of his shoulders… It was Thyme. But that made no sense. My heart pounded in my chest. I twisted my head back toward the bedroom, where the shape of Thyme was still a peaceful mound under the sheets.
Two of them. The thought was so absurd, a dizzying wave of vertigo washed over me.
"Th... Thyme?" My voice was a dry, uncertain whisper.
The figure froze before slowly turning. It was Thyme's face, but older, worn down. The usual spark in his eyes was replaced by a profound, aching sadness that seemed to stretch across a lifetime. He looked at me with a longing that felt ancient.
"Meta," he breathed, the sound like a ghost's last sigh. In the next blink, he was gone. Vanished into the thin air, leaving only the swirling dust motes in the dim morning light.
I lunged across the room, my hand grasping at nothing. A hysterical laugh bubbled in my throat. This had to be the stress. I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, trying to force the frantic thoughts in my head to slow down. My eyes landed on the drawer the apparition had been searching. It was still cracked open.
A photo was inside, lying face down. On the back, a faded inscription read: "Brother Metharaj." My father's name. Why? A cold shock ran through me as I flipped it over. It was a picture of my father as a young man, smiling widely. And standing next to him, his arm thrown casually over my dad's shoulder, was the scarred man from my dreams.
My world tilted. My father had always told me he was an orphan. Why was he in a picture with this man? And why would that man, this ghost from my nightmares, share my father's name? Was my whole life built on a lie? The questions piled up, each one heavier than the last, suffocating me.
"Meta?"
I flinched, turning to see Thyme standing in the doorway. He must have woken up. I quickly slid the picture back into the drawer, burying it under a stack of old mail before turning to face him. "Oh, you're awake."
He just nodded, his eyes still half-closed, his hair sticking up in every direction. It was a moment so normal, so mundane, it felt like a lifeline.
"Do you need anything?" I asked.
He shook his head. He was never one for words when he'd just woken up, a detail I found strangely endearing. Just then, a low rumble echoed through the quiet room. Thyme's stomach.
A small smile touched my lips. "Go sit down. I'll make you breakfast," I offered. He nodded again, and I got to work. After we ate, and I'd let him shower and borrow some of my old clothes, I dropped him off at his dorm.
As I drove away, my mind raced. I had to find out the truth. My first instinct was to call Non—he's my best friend, he should know something. But I hesitated. If he knew about my past with Thyme, why hadn't he said anything in the two years since my accident? The doubt was a bitter taste in my mouth. Maybe he just thought we'd broken up and didn't want to bring up painful memories. Or maybe… and this was a thought I hated to even consider… maybe he was involved.
No. I couldn't risk it. If I was right, I'd be showing my hand to the very people trying to keep this buried. If I was wrong, I'd be accusing my best friend of a terrible betrayal. I had to do this on my own. I had to be more careful. The game had just changed.
But whom should I approach? The question burned in my mind, a frantic, circling thought. The situation was becoming more complicated with every passing minute. I pulled over to the side of the road, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. A logical conclusion forced its way through the panic: before I could approach anyone, I needed proof. Proof that my relationship with Thyme was real. We went to the same high school. There had to be something, some place that could prove our past and, maybe, just maybe, unlock a memory.
It was still too early to go to the school. The park. The park from my fragmented memory. It was an hour's drive away, but as I got closer, the pressure in my chest grew. It was a suffocating, unexplainable mix of dread and longing. It felt like I was driving toward a funeral and a homecoming at the same time. The air thickened with a profound sense of loss that wasn't mine, yet felt utterly a part of me.
I finally parked, my hands shaking as I cut the engine. The scent of fresh-cut grass and damp earth filled the air, replacing the stale air of my car. This wasn't just a park. It was a place where my heart had been broken and mended. A place where my life had started and, maybe, ended. I walked through the park, every step a painful recognition. And then I saw it—a massive, ancient tree by the river. It was the same tree. A gasp tore from my throat. My head began to throb with a sharp, piercing pain that felt like a nail being driven into my skull. My vision blurred as silent tears, hot and desperate, streamed down my face. The world around me spun and dissolved as the fragments of a memory, like shattered pieces of glass, began to click into place.
I was younger then, dozing peacefully under the cool shade of the tree, two days before my first day of tenth grade. A soft, rhythmic clicking sound, like a bug, broke the silence. My eyes snapped open, irritation flooding my senses. I was Meta, and I was a private person. My admirers knew this. So who dared to invade my peace?
I saw him then, a boy on the other side of the riverbank, with a camera raised to his face. He was taking pictures, and my blood ran cold with anger. The nerve. I immediately stood up and crossed the grass, my cold, menacing aura a shield I wore to keep people away. I was bigger than him, and he visibly recoiled as I approached, his hands shaking as he clutched the camera.
"Are you taking pictures of me?" I demanded, my voice low and dangerous.
He flinched, his eyes wide and scared. "No... no, I'm not!" he stammered, but the lie was obvious. A cold anger built inside me, fueled by a deep-seated paranoia I didn't understand.
I snatched the camera from his hands. He was so startled he let go instantly. My fingers fumbled with the buttons, my heart pounding in my chest. I scrolled through the photos, my face a mask of furious certainty. But as I flipped through them, my confidence began to crumble. There were no pictures of me. Only the river, the old bench, the rustling leaves of the trees.
I felt a blush creep up my neck, a foreign heat of shame. He was still standing there, his whole body shaking, looking like a frightened rabbit cornered by a predator. I was a villain in a drama, and I was the one who had made a mistake. A deep, unfamiliar guilt twisted in my stomach.
"So... sorry," I started, but my apology was cut short by an absurd, loud growl that echoed between us. His face flushed a deep crimson, and he clutched his stomach, looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. The tension, the fear—it all evaporated in a single, laughable, and painfully awkward moment.
A small, genuine smile touched my lips, a rare expression I hadn't worn in years. I had never seen anyone so embarrassed. "Let me buy you a meal," I said, a little too quickly. "To pay you back for the misunderstanding. I'm really sorry."
His eyes, wide and still tearful, suddenly lit up, shining like two stars. Was he happy because I was buying him food? Or was he relieved I wasn't going to hurt him? He just stared at me, his mouth slightly open, looking so unbelievably precious.
And then, a thought, a memory fragment, pierced through the humorous fog: the face of the girl who had saved me from my teacher years ago. I had always dreamed of her, but could never remember her face. Until now. This boy, with the same tearful eyes and radiant smile... he was her spitting image. He was the boy who looked exactly like the girl who saved me. Was this the first time I met Thyme? Was it because of this strange coincidence that I had subconsciously been drawn to him, even after losing my memory?
The vision shattered, and I was back in the park, clutching the tree's bark. The scent of cut grass and damp earth brought me back to the present. My head throbbed, a dull ache now, and my cheeks were wet with tears. I remembered everything now. The first time I met Thyme. The coincidence. The humor, the awkwardness, the overwhelming sense of connection. This wasn't just a memory; it was the origin story of my love.
But a doubt, a poison in my mind, still lingered. Was this just an illusion? A story you're telling yourself to cope with the stress? No. It wasn't. The emotions were too real, the pain too sharp. This wasn't a coping mechanism. It was the truth. It was all real, and someone had stolen it from me. The game had just changed. I didn't just have a picture. I had a memory. And I would get it all back.