[♡Prologue♡]
What I saw in the mirror wasn't breathtaking —
But it was taking my breath.
She sat there, brushing her hair. Long. Black. Silky. It flowed past her waist—no, longer than that—an endless midnight waterfall.
Her face was turned toward me, but her eyes weren't. She wasn't looking at me. Just quietly brushing, slowly, as if I wasn't there.
There was something haunting in how normal it all felt—like I was watching her through the glass, but she wasn't.
I just stared. Like a fool. Or maybe in awe. Probably both.
Then, a voice—smooth, cold, and way too casual for the creep factor—cut through the silence as the mirror went blank again, back to its usual boring self, reflecting the me in front of it.
"Her hair will reach only her shoulders by the time you meet her."
And that was it.
BOOM. I was awake.
Sat upright in bed like I'd just been personally attacked by my own subconscious. Again.
You'd think I'd be used to it by now—same dream, different night. Same girl I don't know, brushing her hair like we've got history or some unfinished shampoo commercial.
And the best part is: I remember her face better than my own exam schedule.
So, there I am, night after night, watching her like some ghost trapped in a mirror-shaped loop.
Ridiculous, right?
If people knew, I'd be ruined.
The Great Asher Warren—the man, the myth, the guy whose face is currently the wallpaper on half the girls' phones on campus—dreaming about a mystery girl like I'm in a discount romance novel?
Please. Like what?
"Hey, you know what's wild? I keep dreaming about a girl I've never met and her hair care routine."
Yeah, that'd go over great.
Worse? I think I've started looking for her in crowds.
I'm officially a pathetic cliché, and I hate myself for it.
{🥀'She found Me Before I can find her'🥀}
***
[24 April, 2025💜]
Guess what?
Just woke up from that dream. Yeah, the beauty in the mirror. Hair darker than my sleep schedule, brushing it like she's got all the time in the damn world. I'm kinda sick of that dream. Or am I? I don't know. Probably not.
My phone was being blown up, ain't new. The screen lit up with a flood of notification.
Twenty messages.
Fifteen missed calls.
From fourteen girls.
Tragic. Only fourteen girls missed me last night? Am I losing my charm?
A new low for my reputation, honestly. I mean, where's the commitment? I open them anyway, half-interested, half-bored.
First one? An ex. Obviously. The classic "I miss us" message with a crying emoji and a strategically attached selfie to remind me what I'm missing.
Next? Another ex. This one took a different route-sent a picture with her new boyfriend, both smiling like toothpaste models, captioned "So happy rn 💕".
Right. Because nothing screams "moved on" like sending it straight to your ex's inbox.
A few more of the same-some asking how I've been like we didn't ghost each other a few days ago but a few years ago, some using heartbreak as a flirty excuse to start over. Again.
Honestly, if a two-day hangout counts as a relationship, then sure, I'm apparently a heartbreaker.
But come on. I don't even remember half their last names.
Whatever. I was already running late-not that it was a rare thing anymore. I dragged myself to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and stood under the shower until I could think straight. In five minutes, I was back in front of the mirror, towel hanging off my neck.
I dried off, but didn't let my hair dryer do its full job. Slightly damp hair ain't bad. I threw on an ebony shirt-sleeves folded halfway up like I meant business (I didn't)-and dark jeans. Nothing flashy, not trying to impress anyone. Just refusing to look like I rolled out of a trash bin.
Ran a hand through my black hair; it settled the way it wanted. Fine. Slipped on my silver watch, put on my white sneakers.
That's it. Don't I look like Mr. Charming already?
And breakfast? Skipped, obviously. I don't exactly have time to sit and romance toast. Just grabbed my phone, keys, wallet. Out.
Now, fun fact: I don't live in a dorm.
Why? Well, Mr. Warden kicked me out of the dormitory like I was a national threat to dorm room dignity. Because I came back at 3 a.m.-drunk, with my equally idiotic friends-for a week in a row. I mean, come on. I wasn't gonna harass anyone. It's the boys' dorm, for heaven's sake. But nope. Out I went.
Tried to rent a bigger apartment, but my dad nearly had a stroke. Not 'cause he's broke or anything-nah, far from it. The guy's practically a walking vault. But when I said I needed extra money to rent a flat, he just gave me that death glare and went,
"Care to explain how you got yourself thrown out of the dorms?"
And you can guess what followed.
Anyways, according to him, the pocket money he gives me should be more than enough to rent a decent flat.
Sure, Dad. But I'm just a boy. I have other necessities too, like-surviving in style.
Then he dropped the ultimate threat:
"Then sell your Lambo. You're not getting a single penny from me."
Sell my black Sesto Elemento? Is he insane? That car is my soul on four wheels.
And of course, his mistress chimed in like she's starring in a daytime soap, all honey-drenched and fake smiles. "Come on, dear, he's your son, just give him what he says."
Like, seriously? Now I need my father's second wife to vouch for me?
So I caused a little scene. Dramatically walked out and claimed I'd never step foot in that mansion again. Of course, I'll be back in a few months to boost my bank balance. I know he'll give in-sooner or later.
I could already see a small crowd gathering-they always did when my wife, I mean my Lambo, rolled into view. I pulled into the parking lot of the grand St. Westbridge University, making my usual dramatic entrance. Not my fault I was born with style. Some people have to try; I just exist.
All eyes on me, as expected. And my eyes? On the gate of the Department of Management. Not because my current girlfriend might be waiting there-she's clingy, not punctual-but because that's where I study. Unfortunately.