Mirabelle knew she was dreaming. She could tell by the way she was floating—weightless and untethered—watching a version of herself that no longer felt like her at all.
Below her stood the Mirabelle of the past, framed by walls of glass and gold. The penthouse glittered around her, every surface polished and every detail curated to perfection. Her dress was silk, her jewelry heavy, her posture flawless. She looked like something sculpted—beautiful, poised and untouchable. But her eyes were hollow.
The dream-Mirabelle smiled with that practiced sweetness that never quite reached her eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and careful, as if one wrong word might shatter the illusion.
It was the life she thought she had buried long ago. It was her old life in the other timeline.
The scene shifted—seamless and cruel.
She was in a recording studio now, holding neatly packed meals and boxes of drinks. Her younger self placed them beside Noah, who sat behind the mixing console, his face washed in monitor light.
"Noah," she said gently, "you've been here since morning. You should eat."
He looked up, eyes unreadable. "Thank you." His tone was polite. Too polite. Then he turned back to his work.
The silence stretched like glass between them.
Mirabelle forced a small smile. "I bought snacks for the others too. Cassian liked the lemon bars last time—"
"That's thoughtful," he interrupted, his voice kind but distant. "You don't have to. You've done enough."
She laughed softly. "It's fine. I like helping."
He only nodded and kept working. That was all. That was always all.
The ache in her chest was so real she could still feel it in the dream. That quiet rejection, the emptiness of being near him but never reaching him—it came rushing back like it never left.
The dream shifted again.
Now she was in EON's rehearsal room, smiling brightly as she handed out new lyric sheets and water bottles. The other members were friendly, even teasing—Cassian joked about her "assistant tendencies," Luca thanked her for the snacks. But they were careful, too. They never lingered too long. Never made eye contact for too long. Because they all knew. They could feel it—the frost that surrounded Noah whenever she entered the room.
And still, she stayed.
She waited after rehearsals. She wrote messages of encouragement when the group faced criticism. She convinced herself that his silence was a sign of patience rather than distance, that his indifference came from focus, and that once the group succeeded, he would finally have time for her.
But that time never came.
Then came Clara.
The first time she saw them together was at a private industry gala. Clara laughed at something Noah said, and Noah—Noah smiled back.
It wasn't the polite half-smile he offered everyone else, but a real one—warm, effortless, and genuine.
Mirabelle's champagne glass trembled in her hand.
From then on, she saw it everywhere—the quiet fondness in his tone when he spoke to Clara, the way his eyes softened, the light that had never once been there for her.
In her dream, Mirabelle's past self began to unravel. Jealousy ate through her like acid disguised as longing. She saw herself pacing in the dark, tears streaking her face as she whispered through clenched teeth, Why her? What does she have that I don't?
The images came faster—uglier. The things she had thought, the things she had almost done—each one painted the shadow of a person she could barely recognize.
If she disappears, maybe he'll see me.
If she gets hurt, maybe he'll remember who truly cared.
She hated this version of herself. But she remembered her too well.
The dream blurred again—first came the blinding camera flashes, the screaming fans, and the wailing sirens. Then the scene shifted to a courtroom. And then, standing before her, was Noah.
He stood across from her, expression empty, voice sharp as a blade.
"You are nothing to me."
The words hit harder now than they had then.
"Do not expect my forgiveness. Do not expect my acknowledgement again."
Her dream-self crumpled, reaching for him, begging. But he turned away. The sound of his footsteps fading was the last thing she heard before the world shattered into silence.
Mirabelle gasped awake. She bolted upright, the morning light cutting through her curtains like a blade. Her heart thundered against her ribs. For a second, she didn't know where—or when—she was.
Her pillow was damp. The sheets beside her were cool. Noah was gone, off to work already. But his scent lingered faintly, wrapping around her like a ghost of something she once wanted so desperately.
Her throat tightened, and before she could stop herself, she began to cry. Softly at first—then harder, trembling with the weight of everything she'd tried to bury.
How could she believe him now? How could she trust that the same man who once looked her in the eye and said you are nothing could ever mean the words he said now?
Her fingers dug weakly into her chest. "Don't believe it," she whispered to herself, voice breaking.
Again.
"Don't believe it."
And again—until it became a trembling chant, half prayer, half plea.
"Don't believe it… don't believe it… don't believe it…"
But no matter how many times she said it, the ache only grew—because deep down, some fragile, traitorous part of her wanted to believe him more than anything in the world.