THYME'S POV:
I ran a hand through my hair, the gesture one of pure, agitated restlessness. My two morning classes had been suspended, leaving me with a terrifying expanse of empty time that my mind immediately rushed to fill with chaos. I should have felt relieved, but all I felt was a suffocating pressure, a static hum beneath my skin. I was a ship without an anchor, drifting in a sea of my own turbulent thoughts. Lying on my bed, the familiar blue light of my phone was a poor substitute for the sun, a cold and distant star. I scrolled mindlessly through social media, a desperate habit of distraction, until a video in the "Uni Cute Boys" feed snagged my attention.
And there he was. Meta.
The shaky phone video was low-quality, the audio distorted by the chatter of the crowd, but it was unmistakably him. He stood like a silent monolith in the hallway, surrounded by a sea of accusatory faces. His own face was a mask of cold, dangerous resolve. I turned up the volume, my thumb trembling, and heard his voice—a low rumble that was both a shield and a declaration. He was defending me. He was telling them, telling the world, that I was someone he cherished.
A tidal wave of heat crashed over me, starting in my chest and flooding my face until my ears burned. My heart hammered against my ribs, a chaotic, joyous rhythm that stole the air from my lungs. I should have been over the moon. The most respected, most intimidating guy in engineering faculty had just publicly claimed me.
But the joy was tainted, cut with a strange, unsettling bitterness. A tremor of worry, cold and sharp, ran through me, a dizzying mix of elation and a deep, coiling dread. Why did I feel so restless? Why was I so terrified that someone who said they would cherish me would one day leave? I knew I was being ridiculous. Meta had already proved his seriousness with a kiss that had rewritten my world. And now, he had protected my dignity in a way I never thought possible.
My mind, however, was a battlefield. "Someone finally cherishes you more than your own parents could," a small, hopeful voice whispered, a fragile sprout of warmth in the desolate landscape of my heart. But another voice, louder and steeped in a lifetime of fear, immediately rose to crush it. "And what happens when he realizes you're not worth it? What happens when he sees the broken thing you really are and leaves, too?" My hands shot up and I slapped my cheeks, the sharp sting a desperate, physical attempt to silence the inner turmoil. "No, Thyme. Stop it," I chastised myself, the words a lie I desperately needed to believe.
Food. Food could quiet the noise. A delicious meal had always been my solace. I decided to walk to a small, charming cafe nearby that served the best matcha cake. I would take the long way, however. I would not use the elevator, not after seeing that scarred, horrifying reflection in the glass, a phantom that promised a doorway to a world of pain. I also avoided the street with the smoky grilling stalls, a primal fear telling me that the thick, fragrant haze could be a portal, another trigger I wasn't ready to face. I needed to feel the solid ground beneath my feet. I needed to feel safe.
The cafe was a pocket of serenity in the bustling city, a haven of soft lighting and the gentle hiss of an espresso machine. "Hello!" I greeted the cashier, a friendly woman who had come to know my routine. "I'd like to have an Iced Matcha Latte and two slices of that matcha cake, please." She smiled, knowing my budget was tight and my appetite for sweets was not. It was my regular order, a simple ritual of comfort in a life that felt anything but. I sat at a small table in the corner, a quiet observer of the world outside.
My gaze drifted to the street, and that's when I saw them. Two guys, walking hand-in-hand. One of them said something, and the other threw his head back and laughed, a bright, unburdened sound. Their shoulders brushed, an easy, unconscious intimacy that spoke volumes. They were a couple, their love a bold and public statement. A genuine, uncomplicated happiness bloomed in my chest for them. In a country that was still learning to love openly, their freedom was a profound act of courage.
My racing thoughts began to slow. Seeing them, a small, terrified part of me began to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could have that, too. A future where I wasn't ashamed. Maybe it was good to pursue this strange, developing relationship I had with Meta. The cake arrived, a perfect square of vibrant green. I ate it slowly, savoring the earthy bitterness of the matcha as it balanced the creamy sweetness. Each bite was a small victory over my fears. The worries were not gone, but they were distant. For now, in this little corner of the world, I was just a boy with a delicious cake and a glimmer of hope.
The delicious, sugary comfort of the matcha cake was a lie. A temporary truce in a war I didn't know I was losing. The moment I pushed open the glass door to leave, the world shattered.
The familiar street didn't just spin; it fractured, the sounds of traffic and chatter tearing apart like fabric. A nauseating vortex of light and noise pulled me in, a violent, disorienting force that ripped the air from my lungs. I stumbled, my hands flying out, but there was nothing to grab onto but the dissolving remnants of my reality. The world spun faster until it finally spat me out into a new, terrifying place.
I was on a street, but the air was thick with the choking smog of charcoal fires and the sour stench of human sweat and refuse. The buildings were old and crumbling, their wooden facades leaning tiredly against one another. A crowd had gathered in a tight, suffocating circle, their faces a horrifying tableau of disgust and morbid fascination. They were vultures, drawn by the scent of suffering. In the center, a grotesque spectacle was unfolding. My blood ran cold.
An old man, his face a mask of furious righteousness, the veins bulging in his neck, was beating a young woman. His hands, gnarled and heavy, struck her with a savage force. The first blow was a sharp, wet crack of a slap that echoed in the sudden silence. The woman's head snapped to the side, a red handprint already blooming on her cheek.
"You shame-bringer!" he roared, his voice a guttural bellow of pure hatred. "You soil our family name with this filth!"
The crowd murmured, their eyes blank and hungry. They weren't trying to help; they were feeding on her humiliation.
The woman, despite the blows, was defiant. "But am I wrong for loving her?" she screamed, her voice raw with pain and desperation. "Is my love not the same as any other?"
"Your love is a cancer!" he shrieked, his voice laced with pure venom. "It is an infection! It is a sickness that will not be tolerated in this house or on this street! You are a disgrace to your mother and to your ancestors!" He raised his foot and brought it down hard on her side. The sickening thud of the impact made my stomach churn.
"No, Father, no love is a sickness!" she screamed, her voice a fragile, broken thing. "All love is the same!"
Suddenly, an old woman rushed forward, her hands trembling. "Manop, stop beating your daughter!" she cried, trying to grab his arm. He shoved her aside with a vicious snarl. "Don't stop me, Pacharapa! Or do you want me to be a disgrace to your name as well?" The old woman whimpered and backed away, a silent, helpless witness to her daughter's suffering.
"Now," Manop spat, his eyes burning with a hellish fire as he kicked his daughter again, a brutal, casual act of violence. "Will you continue this foolishness? Or will you be a dutiful daughter and marry the man we have chosen?"
The young woman, her body bruised and broken, looked up at him, her gaze a fierce, unwavering fire in her bloodied face. "I will not marry him," she said, her voice a raw whisper of pure defiance. "There is only one person I will ever love. And that is Chalita."
The name was a final spark in the powder keg of her father's rage. "You pathetic sinner!" he roared, and began to kick her again and again, his blows relentless and savage, each thud a punctuation mark in his tirade of hate. "Chalita is a disgrace! And you are a disgrace! I will beat this sin out of you!"
The woman was no longer moving. The light in her eyes had gone out, leaving her a broken, limp doll on the cobblestones. But he didn't stop.
I couldn't stand it anymore. My body, a silent, helpless witness, was shaking uncontrollably. I tried to move, to scream, but my throat was closed tight. My body felt like a phantom, a ghost that could not touch or be touched. I lunged forward, trying to push him, to grab his hands, but my own passed right through his body like smoke. I was nothing. I was useless. I was just watching.
"Stop it, Uncle, please!" I screamed, but the voice was a silent echo in my own head, a desperate prayer with no god to hear it. "Can't you see she's unconscious?!" I turned to the crowd, my incorporeal form pleading with their dead eyes, but they couldn't see me. They couldn't hear me. Some of them were laughing, as if this was some grotesque comedy.
"Someone, please!" I sobbed, phantom tears streaming down my face. "Anyone who can hear me! Please help her! Please!"
But no one heard me. No one saw me. I was alone in a nightmare that was all too real, all too familiar. And then I knew why. My own painful, forgotten memories began to resurface, jagged shards of glass in my mind. The pain in my heart was not just for the woman on the ground. It was for a past where I, too, was a victim of this same hatred, condemned for a love they called a sickness. I wasn't just watching a stranger's tragedy; I was reliving my own.