I was dreaming.
The scent of fresh grass filled the air as the sun cast long golden streaks over the field. My father stood before me, smiling, holding a football under one arm. His voice was warm, patient.
"Focus, Anakin. It's all in the follow-through."
I lined up my shot, heart pounding. This time, I was going to get it right. My leg swung back—I struck the ball, but it went wide again. He laughed, shaking his head.
"Almost. You're getting there."
I smiled back, ready to try again. But then—he started fading. His body turned to wisps of smoke, unraveling like an illusion.
"Dad?"
The field darkened. The sun disappeared. The laughter died.
And then—
I woke up.
A sharp inhale. My chest heaved as I sat up, sweat clinging to my skin. The dream was already slipping away, but the unease remained, thick like a weight on my ribs.
I threw off the covers and staggered to the bathroom, splashing cold water onto my face. My reflection was blurry at first, then cleared as droplets slid down my jaw.
That's when I saw it.
Three words. Bright. Unfamiliar. Etched into my skin like a cruel joke.
"72 HOURS LEFT"
I blinked. My pulse spiked. The numbers stayed.
"The hell…?"
I rubbed my face furiously, hoping—praying—it was some trick of the mirror. But when I looked up again, the glowing text remained, hovering just above my forehead like a silent executioner.
Panic surged through me. I grabbed my phone and snapped a photo. If this was real, I needed proof.
But when I checked the picture, my reflection was normal. No text. No countdown. Just my own pale, wide-eyed face staring back.
A cold shiver crawled down my spine.
Then I heard it.
A voice. Low. Unfamiliar. Not human.
"If you don't find someone who truly loves you… If you have any regrets left after 72 hours… you will die. Not in pain. Not in torture. You will simply disappear. No one will remember you. As if you never existed."
My breath hitched.
"What a sad way to go."
"Who—who the hell are you?!" I spun around, searching the room. But there was no one. No shadows shifting in the corners, no movement under the bed. Just my racing heartbeat.
I grabbed at my head, my fingers tangling in my hair. "This has to be a nightmare," I whispered. "This isn't real. This isn't—"
No response. The voice was gone, as if it had never spoken at all.
I bolted out of the apartment, throwing on my hoodie as I stumbled into the streets. The world moved on like nothing had changed—cars passed, people laughed, the sky stretched out as blue as ever.
"Hey! Can you see anything on my forehead?" I grabbed the nearest stranger, an older man with a grocery bag.
He recoiled. "What?"
"Look!" I pointed at my reflection in a store window. "You don't see anything?"
His gaze flickered to the glass, then back to me. "Kid, you feeling alright?"
My throat tightened. I turned to a group of students walking by. "Do any of you—"
"Freak," one muttered.
I let them pass, my hands shaking. No one could see it. No one could hear the voice.
This was real. And I was the only one trapped in it.
I needed to act fast.
Three days.
The first name that came to mind—Evangeline.
I had loved her for years. Through friendships, heartbreaks, even when I was with someone else… it was always her.
Maybe she felt the same.
Maybe she was the key to saving me.
I ran back inside, threw on my best shirt, grabbed a stray cat from the alley (because everyone loves a guy with a cat, right?), and headed straight for her place.
I was going to confess.
I had 72 hours left to live.
And I wasn't wasting another second.
I wanted to run, but I didn't want to ruin my face with sweat, so I called an Uber instead.
The ride felt longer than it should have. My leg bounced up and down, my fingers tapping impatiently against my knee. I kept checking the time, but the seconds crawled like they were mocking me.
She'd be outside in five minutes.
I knew this because I had watched her routine more times than I'd admit. Not in a creepy way—not really. Stalking isn't bad as long as you don't make them uncomfortable. That's what I told myself, at least.
My mind drifted back to the first time I met her. Ninth grade. A group project. Her bright silver hair had caught the sunlight when she turned to introduce herself, her blue eyes sharp yet warm. I barely spoke to her back then. She didn't just complete her part of the project—she finished mine too when I got sick. Even bought me medicine.
That might not be romantic. But it was enough for me.
Now, years later, she was still the only person I had ever truly wanted.
The car slowed. My breath hitched.
I spotted her instantly.
She walked with effortless grace, her movements so fluid they made trained models look clumsy. Her laughter rang out through the evening air, light and carefree. She was with her friends, probably talking about something ridiculous.
This was it.
I pushed down the gnawing fear in my stomach, the thought that maybe—just maybe—this wasn't going to end the way I wanted. I stepped forward, clearing my throat.
"Eva."
She stopped mid-laugh. Her head turned toward me, and for a fleeting second, her expression shifted—surprise, curiosity, maybe even something else.
Her friends stifled giggles. Do they ship us? I hope they do.
I forced myself to stay steady, though my heart pounded. "Can we talk? Just for a second."
The shift in her posture was subtle, but I caught it—the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the way her fingers curled around the strap of her bag.
Still, she nodded. "Sure."
I led her a few steps away from the others. They whispered behind us, barely hiding their amusement. I tried to focus, to push down the lump in my throat.
This was my chance. My only chance.
My first words were shaky, and I had to clear my throat before trying again.
"Eva, I love you. I've always loved you."
Silence.
For a moment, I let myself believe. Let myself hope.
Then she laughed.
Not the warm, melodic kind that had always drawn me in. This one was cruel, sharp-edged.
"Love? With you?" She tilted her head, her smile twisting. "Me? What are you, a dreamer?"
My stomach dropped.
"Considering you as a friend is too much," she added, her voice light, almost bored.
And then—she just walked away.
Like I was nothing.
Like I had never mattered at all.
I stood there, frozen. My mind screamed at me to move, to say something, to do anything. But I couldn't.
My chest felt hollow, like something inside me had cracked open.
This was supposed to save me.
Instead, it shattered me.