She didn't respond to the message.
She couldn't. Not with all the noise in her head.
Instead, she tossed her phone aside and drifted off to sleep with her playlist on low, the glow of streetlights dancing faintly across her walls.
But sleep wasn't kind.
In the dream, everything was burning.
Not flames—but chaos. Students screaming. Shoes thudding against hallway tiles. A shadow moving fast through the smoke.
She was there, watching helplessly as fear bloomed like ink in water.
And then—her hands.
They were glowing.
Light pulsed from her fingertips, as if the power to stop it all was right there, humming beneath her skin. People turned to her, begging without words. She raised her hands, heart pounding—
And a force, sharp and cold, knocked her off her feet.
She woke up gasping.
Breathless. Confused.
She blinked at the ceiling, the glow of her room nothing like the fire she'd just escaped. Her hands were still. Empty.
It was just a dream.
But it felt real.
Her chest ached from it. Her bones trembled. Her heart carried the memory like an unhealed bruise.
Then her phone buzzed again. This time, a call.
Imade.
She picked up, trying to sound normal. "Hello?"
"You okay?" Imade's voice was shaking. "They said someone jumped the school gate last night. Security was chasing him. People say he came looking for someone. Someone on our floor."
Her blood ran cold.
"Who?" she whispered.
"I don't know. But… I think you should lock your windows tonight."
She didn't sleep again that night.
Not because she didn't want to, but because every small noise sounded like footsteps. Every gust of wind rattling the window made her heart do high jump.
And to make things worse, her roommate Ada had the nerve to snore like someone chasing ogbono soup in a nightmare.
"I swear if that intruder doesn't get us, this your snoring will," she muttered.
The next morning, the entire hostel was buzzing.
Girls were forming FBI units with slippers in hand. Theories flew left and right.
"I heard he scaled the fence like Spider-Man," one girl said dramatically.
"Abeg, Spider-Man no dey wear black hoodie," another shot back. "He looked more like native doctor if you ask me."
"Wetin concern native doctor with hostel babes? Una don watch too many Nollywood films."
She tried to laugh, tried to act like her chest wasn't tight with fear and confusion. But Imade wasn't smiling either.
"He was looking for someone," Imade said quietly. "What if—what if it's connected to that message?"
Her stomach flipped.
It couldn't be Zayn.
Could it?
He wouldn't…
She tried to shake the thought off, but her mind betrayed her.
That night, she had another dream.
This time, she was surrounded by people—girls crying, boys running, teachers shouting her name. And there she stood, calm in the eye of chaos, her eyes glowing this time. Not just her hands—her whole body radiated power.
"Save us," someone whispered.
She opened her mouth to speak—and out came Igbo mixed with perfect Queen's English.
"Auntie, stand up from there! You are blocking destiny!"
Then she fell into a sudden split and blasted light from her palm like she was in a Nollywood-Marvel crossover.
She woke up laughing. Actually laughing.
"Ahn ahn," Ada grunted from the top bunk, eyes still closed. "Why you dey laugh for dream? Na who you see? Jesus?"
But beneath the laughter, her chest still felt… off.
Because the feeling hadn't left her. The dreams, the message, the intruder—it was all weaving into something bigger.
And deep down, a small voice whispered:
What if it's not just a dream? What if the power is real? And what if someone else knows it too?
The next day started like any other—until it didn't.
Classes dragged on as usual. Lecturers continued their sport of talking over faulty projectors and pretending everyone was following. She barely heard a thing. Her mind was back in the dream: the light, the chaos, the exact words she had said.
It was ridiculous. Impossible.
But it stuck.
After class, there was a student-led "relax and unwind" session at the quad—some new faces around, music, and an open mic. Everyone sat on the grass, chilled drinks in hand, waiting for someone brave enough to be the first to embarrass themselves.
Then she stepped forward.
The new girl.
Black. Loud. Confident. And definitely American.
"Hey y'all," the girl said into the mic with a grin. "I'm Harmony. I'm from Brooklyn and honestly? Y'all too quiet for my taste!"
A few cheers rose. Harmony didn't wait.
"So the other day, I asked this guy on campus if I could borrow his pen, and he said, 'You can borrow my heart instead.' Y'all, I said, 'Sir, is it a Bic heart? Because I need something that actually works!'"
Laughter exploded.
Except… she didn't find it funny.
She glanced around, baffled. That was it? That was the punchline?
Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Or maybe she was tired of watching people act like they were laughing just to belong.
So, on impulse—bold, unexpected impulse—she stood up.
Someone handed her the mic before her brain could stop her. She cleared her throat.
"Okay, so, my own joke."
People looked at her. Curious. Slightly amused. The girl who never really spoke up? This should be good.
She smiled. "Why did the Nigerian student fail mathematics?"
Silence. Anticipation.
She grinned wider. "Because he spent all his time calculating his crush's location instead of his X and Y."
The place erupted.
Laughter everywhere. People fell back on their mats, Imade clapped like she was trying to summon thunder, and even Harmony was wheezing with her hand on her chest.
Her face warmed. Not from embarrassment. From joy.
For once, she wasn't the one watching from the sidelines.
She was the moment.
But the magic faded fast.
As she stepped off the makeshift stage, a guy she'd never seen before walked up to her. Tall. Serious face. Dark twist coils. He looked like the kind of person who always noticed too much.
He leaned in and whispered, "What you said in your dream? That thing—'you are blocking destiny'—where did you hear that?"
Her heart skipped. "Wait… what?"
He gave her a quiet, knowing look. "You're not crazy. You've seen it too."
And just like that… the jokes stopped feeling funny.
She blinked. "Wait… how did you—"
But the boy was already walking away, hands in his pockets, as if he hadn't just unraveled her entire sense of reality with one sentence.
"No no no," she muttered, adrenaline kicking in. She handed her drink to a random girl beside her—"Hold this, please"—and took off after him.
"Hey! Oga Destiny Blocker, come back here!"
He didn't stop.
Weaving through the crowd, she dodged people, ignored the stares, and nearly tripped over someone's open backpack. The music pulsed in her ears like background noise to something bigger.
He was fast. Too fast. But she caught up with him by the edge of the faculty garden, near the old generator house students always claimed was haunted.
"Stop running like they sent you!" she called, panting.
He finally paused, half-turning to face her with a calm, unreadable expression. "You weren't supposed to remember it."
She folded her arms. "And yet, here I am. Remembering everything. Who are you?"
He studied her for a moment, then said softly, "My name's Eli. I saw it too. Months ago. Before I transferred here."
"Saw what exactly?" she asked.
"That place. The light. The fire. The chaos." He lowered his voice. "You were at the center, even in my dream. You said the same words."
She took a step back.
Chills crawled up her arms.
"Is this… like a prank?" she whispered.
Eli shook his head. "You can feel it, can't you? Like something's waking up inside you."
And just like that, her heartbeat slowed… not from fear, but from the heavy realization that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't losing her mind after all.
She wasn't alone.
She didn't say a word as she walked back to the hostel with Imade. The evening breeze was gentle, but her thoughts were loud. Very loud.
Imade was eyeing her like a typical Nigerian auntie who just smelled gist from five miles away.
"Okay," Imade finally said, "are you going to tell me why you chased that boy like he stole your future?"
She hesitated. "Imade… he said something weird."
"Everything about him looks weird," she said, twisting her mouth. "He gives me 'I-know-too-much-and-sleep-on-the-roof' energy."
She laughed weakly. "He said he's seen the dream. My dream. And he said I was in his, saying the exact same thing I said in mine."
Imade stopped walking. "Ehn?! Wait first—what kind of dream are we talking about here? Like, normal dream where your crush turns into yam, or one of those mysterious dreams that start with thunder and end in prophecy?"
"The second one."
Imade's face went pale. "Ahn ahn. Is it not just yesterday you said someone jumped school fence and we should lock window? Now dream is doing group chat?"
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then Imade added, "Wait… what's his name?"
"Eli."
Imade frowned, thinking hard. "Eli… Elijah something? That name rings a bell. Didn't someone with that name use to come for inter-school competitions at our old school?"
She froze.
Her heart skipped.
That's where she'd seen his face before.
Not in this school. But way back—three years ago. A spelling bee, or was it a tech fair? She remembered catching his eye across the room. He'd stared at her like they knew each other.
And she had felt it then—something strange.
Imade was talking, "I remember now! That boy was always alone. And he disappeared from the team halfway through the competition."
Her hands trembled. "Imade… what if this isn't new? What if this started long ago? Before I even knew it?"
Imade looked at her for a long time, then said, "If this is a spiritual something, please let me know. So I can carry you to my pastor early and not late."
She chuckled, but the tension sat heavy between her ribs.
Eli wasn't just a boy with shared dreams.
He was part of her story—from way back.
And now, it seemed, her past was knocking again.
This time, with answers.
Or maybe… more questions.
She buried herself in schoolwork like it was medicine. And for a while… it worked.
Lecturers were dishing out assignments like they were cooking jollof for the whole continent. Group projects became survival missions. She barely had time to think, let alone dream.
Eli faded to the back of her mind—like a blurry figure in a memory you can't quite hold onto.
Besides, real life was still very loud.
Especially Israel.
At first, he was his usual self. Little gifts. Warm words. Random messages that made her smile.
But something shifted.
Maybe it was jealousy.
Maybe he sensed her heart was no longer easily stirred.
But the insults started small. A sarcastic comment here. A passive-aggressive message there.
Then one day, after she didn't reply to his message fast enough, he texted:
"You think you're better than everyone now because people are laughing at your dry jokes?"
That was the last straw.
She didn't even reply. She just opened her apps one by one, went full block ministry on him. Instagram. WhatsApp. Twitter. Even Snapchat. Cleared him out like a virus.
Imade caught her mid-process and said, "Ah, finally. Deliverance has reached this house."
She smiled, but something in her chest stung.
Because no matter how fake his love may have been, it had still made her feel seen for a while.
Still, she knew this was what healing looked like sometimes—cold, sharp, and very necessary.