The last time I had a vivid dream was when I was five, but yesterday I had the most captivating dream. I dreamt of a mysterious man with piercing hazel eyes that seemed to see right through me. His face was etched in my memory like a work of art. And then, in a surreal moment, he stood before me. Our eyes locked, and I felt an inexplicable connection. I was drawn to his captivating gaze, but a sudden stomach cramp interrupted the moment, and I had to pull away. The encounter left me breathless and wondering if it was more than just a dream.
I rushed to the bathroom, relieved myself, then reached for my phone like I always do. A message from my long-distance boyfriend popped up. He told me about his day, so I did the same. I shared the dream—with him, and about the man who had appeared. He read my message but didn't reply.
Frustrated, I flicked open Pinterest and found a beautiful picture of Mitsuri and Obanai—a couple from an anime I adore. I saved it and posted it on my account with the caption "Me and Who," a little joke mixing my love for anime and poetry.
As expected, the post got tons of likes. But I worried—did my boyfriend see it? Did he think I wasn't talking about him? He never messaged again that day. Then three days of silence became a heavy, suffocating weight. I finally broke and texted him, but still… nothing. The painful truth settled in: we were done. He never said it outright, but the silence screamed it all.
Depression wrapped around me like a heavy, suffocating blanket. I skipped meals, abandoned social media, and buried myself in a shell of loneliness and sorrow. The days blurred into one another, a hazy montage of grief and emptiness.
Then came my birthday. Silently, I hoped he would reach out—even just a short message would mean the world. And he did. His words hit me harder than I expected: "Happy birthday, I just greeted you because you greeted me on my birthday."
A storm of conflicting feelings flooded me. Should I feel grateful for the message, or crushed that it was purely transactional? A single tear slid down my cheek as I typed back, "Are we really done?"
His response was immediate and brutal. "Yes, you never liked me anyway."
My heart shattered into a million pieces. I had liked him. More than that—I had loved him, maybe even been obsessed. I had endured his silence, neglected myself, cried myself to sleep night after night. And to hear that I had never truly cared for him? It was unbearable.
I stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity, tears blurring the words. It was my birthday, and I was utterly alone.
A week later, I took a walk to clear my mind—that aimless kind of walk where your thoughts whirl in circles. And then I saw him—the man from my dream. He was standing by the fence of the new house next door, looking just as vivid and real as in my dream.
We were soon introduced. His name is Mikhail, but he goes by Michael. Turns out, his friend is also a friend of mine, which made the introduction effortless.
"So, Mikhail?" I asked, smirking slightly. "That's quite a mouthful."
He laughed, a little self-conscious. "Yeah, I hate it. It sounds so... Russian. Actually, it's Vladimir Mikhail, which feels even more intimidating. That's why everyone just calls me Michael."
"Funny," I said, feeling a pang of sympathy. "I hate my name too. Angelica. My family only yells it when they're angry at me."
He raised an eyebrow. "Really? That's rough. I guess we're both stuck with names we didn't exactly choose."
"Exactly." I smiled, feeling an odd sense of connection. "But hey, at least we have something to complain about together."
The conversation flowed effortlessly, a comfortable rhythm establishing itself between us. He added me on every social media platform, and soon, his messages filled the empty spaces in my days. His texts were a symphony of inside jokes and shared memes, a comforting counterpoint to the quiet hum of my own thoughts. Slowly, cautiously, a warm light began to flicker within me, chasing away the shadows of doubt and loneliness. Hope, fragile yet persistent, bloomed in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something real. Something beautiful. Something that felt as right as Mikhail felt—a name that perfectly suited him.