THE HUNTER .

I don't even know why I agreed to this.

Actually, I do. Because Shaiza said "it'll help you forget him."

Because Ifrah said "this will clear your head."

Because Ruby said "you need to feel something real, not dream-stalking someone you saw once."

And now here I am. Sitting across from a guy whose name is—what? Jayzen?

Jason?

Jagger?

I don't know. I forgot it two seconds after he introduced himself.

He's talking. Still. Something about his future. His plans. His "grind mindset."

"I'm planning to apply for TIG after my final semester," he says proudly, sipping his overpriced iced latte. "It's tough. But I know I can get in if I just push through. I've already started working on certifications. You know, just to stand out."

TIG.

The country's most elite firm. The place everyone wants to be.

Even I've heard of it—massive paychecks, luxury benefits, soul-sucking culture.

I nod. Politely. My mouth curves in a shape that looks like interest, but my brain is somewhere else entirely.

It's not working.

This whole "get over him" idea?

It's failing. Brutally. Pathetically.

Because the truth is—I'm not here. Not really. I'm not even in this café. I'm not listening to Jayzen??Jason??Jaguar??whatever the fuck. I'm not sipping this flat coffee. I'm in a different place.

I'm behind that traffic line again.

I'm at the bus stop.

I'm staring at a man pulling off his helmet like he's starring in a goddamn indie movie directed by my fucking libido.

And no matter how many times I try to erase the scene—it stays.

His jawline.

The hand through the hair.

The eyes.

God, those eyes.

Not even looking at me like I matter. Just like I exist. Like a flicker. A blip.

He didn't even smirk. Didn't even speak.

But somehow, I'm still out here building delusions and whole ass romance sagas in my head like a mentally ill screenwriter.

My fingers twitch on the cup.

I wonder what his voice would sound like.

Probably deep. Smooth. Cold when he wants it to be, but warm if he wants to ruin you. The kind of voice that could kill you or make you fall in love, and he wouldn't care either way. Maybe he's the kind of guy who whispers filth into your neck while holding your wrists down. Maybe his mouth is as mean as his eyebrows.

I imagine—if he were sitting here instead of this vanilla business major—what would he say?

Not something sweet.

Not some "I like your earrings" or "You're so different."

No. He'd lean back with that don't-give-a-fuck energy and say something like—

"You're not my type."

And I'd fucking melt anyway.

Because I'm deranged.

Because even his rejection would sound hotter than Jayzen's entire TED talk about productivity routines

And I'd smile anyway. Because I know what he meant was—

You're trouble. You're a mess. You're not safe to want.

And men like him don't do unsafe.

They fuck it. Ruin it. Destroy it. But never want it.

That's what makes him so addictive.

That's why no one compares.

I think—no, I know—he has girlfriends. Plural. There's no way a man like him hasn't made a habit of pretty bodies and twisted positions. Girls who taste expensive. Who beg prettier. Who arch better. Maybe he's the type to fuck someone against the wall, one hand on her throat, the other still wearing his fucking gloves.

Maybe that's why he stays in my brain.

Not just for how he looked.

But for what he could do.

My lips twitch before I can stop them.

A small smile.

Barely there.

But enough.

"Looks like you're interested in me," Jayzen says, smug as hell.

I blink.

"What?"

"You smiled," he says, leaning forward like he just cracked a code. "That means it's mutual."

I almost choke on air.

Mutual?

Bro, you were talking about LinkedIn certifications, not dirty talk.

I want to laugh. I want to stand up, throw the coffee at the wall, and scream "I'm mentally dating a biker who didn't even breathe in my direction, and you think you're winning??"

But instead, I say nothing.

Because I have to sit here.

I have to.

If I walk away now, Shaiza will give me that smug I-told-you-so look.

Ruby will scream "you're fucking in love!"

Ifrah will update the group chat with the line "well that was fast lol."

So I stay.

I sip my drink.

I nod like I care.

And I imagine him.

The one I actually want.

Riding past the café right now. Stopping. Pulling off his helmet. Walking through the doors like sin on two legs. Leaning down beside me just to whisper, "This the guy you're replacing me with?"

And then maybe he'd drag me out of here.

And I'd burn.

Fucking burn.

But instead—

I sit.

With Jayzen.

In a café.

Pretending I'm not in love with a man I met for three seconds and never saw again.

He's still talking.

Something about a certification in data modeling.

Something about internships. Recommendation letters. Projects.

Fucking TIG.

TIG

TIG

TIG.

I swear to God, if he says "TIG" one more time, I'm going to drown myself in this lukewarm coffee and die right here on this plastic campus café chair.

I'm nodding. Or pretending to. My cheek is resting on my palm, fingers covering half my face, probably looking like I'm thinking about his words. But I'm not.

I'm thinking about pulling out my pepper spray and using it on myself.

I'm thinking about the man from the traffic again. Again. Like he's fucking carved into the backs of my eyelids.

I don't even know his name. He doesn't know mine. But he's everywhere. In my brain. My body. My sleep.

He didn't even do anything.

And still—he did everything.

Meanwhile, the guy across from me—Jayzen or whoever—is trying to flirt by bragging about his resume. That's not flirting, bro. That's a fucking LinkedIn post.

I don't know why I said yes to this.

Okay, I do.

Because I'm a coward.

Because I got tired of pretending that man doesn't live in my bloodstream.

Because I wanted to prove to my friends that I can be normal.

Spoiler: I can't.

And just when I think this date can't possibly get worse—

Thud.

Two hands land on our table.

Hard.

Sudden.

Like thunder in a silent room.

My eyes snap up.

Shadin.

What the actual fuck.

He's standing over us like he's about to flip the whole table, eyes darting from me to Jayzen, back to me again. His brows pull together into that expression he always gets when he's pissed but trying to look casual. His lips twitch like he's either going to smirk or murder someone.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asks.

The nerve. The fucking nerve.

Before I can answer, Jayzen leans forward with this smug-ass calm and says, "We're on a date."

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Shadin turns to him—slowly, deliberately—and stares.

Then he blinks once, deadpan, and says, "Why the fuck is my girlfriend on a date with you?"

My entire spine stiffens.

What.

The.

Fuck?

My jaw falls open. I whip my head toward him.

Girlfriend?? Excuse me?

He winks at me.

The actual fucker winks.

Jayzen stands up, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape. His face goes pale, then red, then pale again.

"You didn't have to do this," he says, looking at me, his voice suddenly all wounded and soft. "If you're in love with him... you could've just said so."

"I'm—what?" I stammer, but he's already walking away.

"And the rumors were true, huh?" he tosses over his shoulder. "You two are together."

Shadin raises his hand and gives him a cheerful wave. "Appreciate the coffee, man."

Jayzen walks out.

I stare at his back.

Then I turn slowly.

So slowly.

Toward the living disaster still standing next to my fucking table.

He grins like the piece of shit he is.

And I snap.

I stand up. My chair screeches back.

"You have lost your goddamn mind."

"I missed you too, sunshine."

I walk away. Fast. I don't even know where I'm going, but I need to move before I throw something at his face.

And of fucking course—

I hear his footsteps behind me.

Because he follows.

"Arshila," he says.

I don't stop.

"Babe."

I spin on him so fast he nearly crashes into me.

"Don't you fucking babe me," I hiss. "What was that back there? What in the actual hell gave you the right to show up and act like you own me?"

His brows lift. "Was I supposed to let LinkedIn boy flirt you to sleep?"

I stare at him like he's grown three heads.

"This was my first date," I snap.

That stops him.

His expression shifts just slightly.

My voice drops. "You ruined it."

"You didn't even like him."

"That's not the point, Shadin!"

He leans closer, eyes gleaming. "Then what is?"

My jaw clenches.

Because I don't have an answer that'll make me look sane.

Because the real reason I'm upset isn't even about the date. It's about the fact that he ruined it, not just Shadin. The stranger. The one in my head. The one who doesn't even know he's in competition with the world.

I shake my head and walk past him, fast. "Just leave me alone."

"I'm coming with," he calls.

I raise a hand and flip him off without turning around.

Because of course he's coming.

Because when does he ever not?

And still—I feel that stupid tug in my chest.

Not for Shadin.

But for the one who isn't here.

The one I made up a thousand versions of in my head.

The one who saw me for three seconds and left me with a fucking lifetime of chaos.

Yeah.

I need help.

But first—I need to murder Shadin.

"What the fuck is with you?" I snap, spinning on him as we step away from the café building, shoes crunching on the brittle grass behind the campus.

Shadin shrugs like nothing just happened. Like he didn't just crash my first ever attempt at being normal.

"You said you wouldn't date anyone unless they look unreal," he says, eyes rolling. "And you think that guy—that guy—was unreal? Bro?? Really?"

My chest rises and falls like I've just run a goddamn marathon.

"It wasn't a date," I mutter, turning from him, dragging my feet toward the lawn near the west garden. The place no one usually comes during class hours. "It was a dare."

He's behind me, too fucking close. "A dare?"

I don't answer. Just drop onto the grass like my bones are too tired to keep me upright. My legs stretch out, spine hits the earth. It's still warm from the morning sun, but all I feel is static in my chest.

He stays standing, looking down at me. "A dare of what?"

I let the silence sit for a second.

Then I say it. Quiet. Truthful.

"I met him."

He stills. "Met who?"

I stare at the sky. Pale blue. Stupid. Empty. Doesn't give a single fuck about me.

"The unreal guy."

He laughs.

Loud.

Fucking laughs.

I don't even flinch. I just tilt my head toward him and stare.

My expression must say everything, because he stops laughing.

"You're serious," he says.

"Do I look like I'm joking right now?"

He doesn't answer.

I sit up. Cross my legs. Elbows on my knees. Head in my hands.

"I met him three months ago," I say, voice low, like it'll break if I speak too loud. "Just for a second. In the traffic. He didn't say a word. He didn't smile. He didn't flirt. He didn't even look at me properly. Just one second. A glance. And then gone."

Shadin says nothing.

I keep going. Because it's all boiling now. It's all crawling out of my chest.

"I dream about him, Shadin. Not like a one-time dream. Recurring. Same fucking dream. Same goddamn day. I look at bike riders like a maniac. Every leather jacket makes my stomach twist. I check behind me when I hear engines. It's not love. It's not even a fucking crush. It's obsession. It's stupid and reckless and probably a mental illness at this point."

Still, he says nothing.

"I tried to forget him. I fucking tried. I even went on a date. I made myself sit there with some decent, perfectly okay guy who wants to work at TIG, and all I could think was—'he's not him.' He doesn't move like him. Doesn't look like he could ruin a city with one blink. Doesn't have the kind of silence that burns. And that's fucked, right?"

My throat tightens. I swallow.

"Tell me I'm insane. Please."

Shadin sinks into the grass beside me finally, arms resting on his knees, silent for a second longer before he mutters, "No. You're not insane."

I don't believe him.

He turns his face toward me, and I feel his stare before I meet it.

"But if you really want to forget him," he says softly, "you could date me."

My lips twitch into something like a dead smile. I lean slightly and shove him—hard—on the shoulder.

He just laughs again, shaking his head like I'm some hopeless case.

And I am.

Because I don't even argue. I don't even answer.

I just lie back again. Sprawl onto the grass like gravity is punishing me.

My eyes drift to the sky.

And then, before I can stop myself—

"God," I whisper. "Bring him to me."

Not Shadin.

Not Jayzen.

Not any of the guys who chase or flirt or stick around.

Him.

The man who broke me without even trying.

The one who looked through me like I was nothing, and still left me with everything.

________________________________________

Time's a bitch.

No, seriously. No matter how many times people say "time heals," or "time gives answers," all it really fucking does is run. With no warning. No brakes. Just goes.

And now I'm in my final year.

Final semester.

The countdown has started, and everything feels like it's slipping through my fingers. Fast. Too fucking fast.

Shadin's gone—graduated, vanished, moved to some European city where he sends blurry photos of food and buildings I can't pronounce. He texts once in a while. Voice notes full of terrible jokes and his usual cocky bullshit. I miss it. His chaos. His too-muchness. But he's a screen now. And I don't chase screens.

The campus feels quieter without him. Not in volume. Just… soul.

And me?

Still here.

. Still pretending to give a fuck about this degree. Still pretending I know what the hell I want to do with my life when this place is done with me.

The girls?

Oh, they've got it figured the fuck out.

Ifrah won't shut up about TIG. It's like her version of heaven. A fucking skyscraper made of ambition and unpaid overtime. She's stupid sometimes, yeah—but not where it matters. That girl has steel under her clumsiness, and I know she'll get in. I can already see her strutting through TIG's glass doors like she owns them. Maybe she will.

Shaiza's on the same train, probably. Pretending she doesn't care, but secretly wants the same thing. TIG. That towering, world-eating empire with offices across the goddamn planet. Getting in there is like being chosen by the gods. Or devils. Either works.

Ruby, though.

Ruby wants peace.

She keeps talking about opening a cafe. One of those cozy, Instagrammy places with warm lights and bookshelves and chai lattes that cost too much. She says she's done with studying. Burnt out. Wants to be around quiet people and warm smells. I don't blame her.

And me?

I don't say it out loud, but I don't want TIG. I don't want a job. I don't want a desk, a salary, a company email address. I don't want to wake up and pretend to care about meetings and spreadsheets and some smug bastard named Adil from accounting.

I want to write.

I want to pour every dark, twisted, beautiful, ugly thought in my brain onto pages and hand it to the world like a bleeding gift. I want people to read my words and feel gutted. Ruined. Reborn. I want to make someone feel the way that man made me feel in three seconds on a fucking motorbike.

But I haven't told them that.

Not fully.

Because my future? It's a blank page. Unwritten. Unknown. And I don't even know where to begin.

The man from the bike—the unreal one with the devil's face and movie-scene hair?

Haven't seen him again.

Not once.

Not in traffic. Not in corridors. Not in fucking dreams lately, either. Like he's gone. Like he was a hallucination wrapped in leather and smoke.

But I never went on another date.

Not one.

I couldn't.

Because every guy I look at now feels like a lesser version. Watered down. Like off-brand perfume. They try to flirt, and I just want to walk away.

He wasn't even real.

He's just a memory. A damn second of a day almost one year ago. But he's still more burned into me than anyone else ever has been.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm insane.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe he was something else. Not human. Not real. Just a figment of whatever fucked up thing lives inside my head.

But mostly, I wonder this:

What if I see him again?

Would he remember me?

Would he even look?

Or would he do the same thing again—look through me like I was glass, like I didn't matter?

Maybe that's what I want.

To be seen. Really seen.

Not for grades. Not for test scores. Not for how loud I laugh or how well I lie about being okay.

I just want something that wrecks me in a way that feels like truth.

But right now, all I've got is a half-finished degree, a bunch of friends with big plans, and a brain that keeps whispering—

You'll never forget him.

And I won't.

Not even if I try.

Not even if I write a thousand books.

Because some people aren't meant to stay.

They're meant to haunt.

If I even mention him, Shaiza rolls her eyes so hard I swear she might sprain something.

"You act like he's the fucking prince of this country."

Her words. Sharp. Annoyed. Loud.

And every time she says it, I shoot her a look. You know the one. The bitch, shut the fuck up before I start look. But she never shuts up.

She's obsessed with the actual prince—the real one. Not metaphorical. Not a joke. The Nazrani prince. The heir to the throne. She's got saved pictures, bookmarked articles, and this weird fantasy that he's going to accidentally marry her after spotting her in a bookstore.

Please.

She shows me his photos sometimes. "Look at this jawline, bro. That's not human. That's genetic divinity."

I nod. Smile. Pretend.

But honestly? I've never even bothered to search "Nazrani Prince" once in my life. Not on Google. Not on Instagram. Not even when Ruby sent that viral thread in the group chat titled 'Ten Times the Prince Looked Like a Walking Orgasm'.

Nope.

Because I don't want to see him. I want to see my man.

The one from traffic.

The one who isn't a prince.

Isn't on a throne.

Isn't married to diplomacy and diamonds.

I want him.

The ghost I met at a red light.

But I know I won't. Not in this lifetime.

So I shut the fuck up and let Shaiza have her royal thirst sessions. I just sit there while Ruby tosses me side-eyes and sighs, "You really need to move the fuck on."

And she's not wrong.

It's been almost a year.

Almost a fucking year since that second—that heartbeat—and I'm still stuck. Still replaying that moment like it's my last breath. Still looking at every biker like I'm hunting a goddamn phantom.

And now?

Now I'm about to take my final exams.

My last goddamn semester.

Everything's ending.

And I'm not ready.

Ifrah's already secured her spot at TIG. No surprise. She worked like hell for it, and even with her dumbass moments, she's sharp where it counts. She'll kill it there.

Ruby's plans are soft and lovely and smell like coffee and old books. She wants to open a bookstore cafe in a quiet corner of the city. Something warm. Something hers.

Shaiza didn't get into TIG. She pretends she doesn't care, but I can see the way her mouth tightens when Ifrah talks about it. She'll figure it out. She always does. Loud, dramatic, unstoppable Shaiza.

But me?

I don't belong anywhere they're going.

I don't want to wear a blazer or learn how to write corporate emails without swearing. I don't want to chase promotions or be part of someone else's empire.

And I sure as hell don't want to leave them.

But I have to.

Because my house—my real house—is in another city. One hour away. Far enough that spontaneous hangouts won't be a thing anymore. No more late-night bitch sessions or unplanned cafe runs.

We're splitting paths.

They'll stay here.

And I'll go… home.

Home.

God, I hate that word Now.

Because something's off there. I can feel it.

Like they've already made a decision and just haven't told me yet. Like something's already changed and I'm the only idiot who doesn't know it.

My mom's been extra sweet lately. Soft voice. Extra food. More "rest well"s and "don't stress"s.

My dad's been quiet. Detached. Always in another room, always typing, always planning.

They think I don't notice.

But I fucking do.

It's in the silence between their conversations.

It's in the sudden glances they share when I walk into the room.

It's in the way the hallway light never gets turned off anymore.

In the way my room feels less like mine and more like a guest space.

They're hiding something.

Maybe it's about job.

Maybe it's a move.

Maybe they've decided something for me.

And I'm scared.

Not just because I don't know what it is.

But because they don't trust me enough to say it.

Because this whole year I've been stuck on someone who doesn't even know I exist, and while I've been daydreaming about bikes and black jackets, real life has been moving around me like a fucking tsunami.

And I'm standing in the middle of it.

Still.

Frozen.

Praying I don't drown.

But most of all—

I hate that I'm not over him.

I hate that my heart still skips when I hear a rev on the street.

I hate that I still look at every guy in a leather jacket like I'm waiting for him to turn around.

I hate that I don't want to let go.

Because he made me feel something no one else ever has.

And I'd rather feel haunted than empty.

---

AUTHOR NOTE 🦦

Bitch, I swear this chapter broke me while writing it.

If you've ever obsessed over someone you barely knew, if you've ever built an entire goddamn fantasy off a glance—you're not alone. Arshila is spiraling and we're all going with her.

Drop a comment if you've ever been haunted by someone who didn't even look at you properly 😤

VOTE,COMMENT, and FOLLOW if you're ready for the chaos that's coming next.and add to COLLECTION 🤍

Because this is just the buildup.

And he's about to fucking arrive.

✨ Let's burn together, besties. ✨

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