Michael woke up gasping.
His chest heaved violently, lungs burning as though he had been running—or drowning. His hands clawed at the sheets, fingers slick with sweat, heart slamming so hard it hurt.
Beep… beep… beep…
The sound was still in his ears.
Too clear.
Too sharp.
He sat upright, sucking in air, eyes darting around the dark room.
His room.
His bed.
No hospital. No machines.
Yet the image refused to fade.
Because the dream hadn't been vague.
It had been precise.
He had been standing beside a hospital bed.
Hidayah lay there, thin and pale, a tube down her throat. Machines surrounded her, their lights blinking steadily. The nurse had just left. The room had gone quiet.
Too quiet.
And then—he had spoken.
Michael squeezed his eyes shut.
But the words replayed anyway.
Clear. Calm. Confident.
You won't hear this anyway.
His stomach twisted violently.
In the dream, he leaned closer to her bed.
Jacintha… she's my daughter.
His breath hitched.
Mine and Jasmine's.
The memory sharpened cruelly.
We were already together a year before she got pregnant. You never knew.
Michael's fingers dug into the mattress.
You raised her like your own…
But she was never yours.
His heart raced.
In the dream, he felt no remorse.
Only relief.
I guess… thanks for that.
A sound tore out of his throat as he jolted fully awake.
"No—" he whispered hoarsely.
His hands shook uncontrollably.
That wasn't something he'd imagined.
That wasn't a distortion.
That was exactly what he had said.
He pressed a hand over his mouth, bile rising in his throat.
In the dream, Hidayah's lashes had fluttered.
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye.
And then—
The monitor flatlined.
Michael doubled over, gasping, sweat dripping down his spine.
The room felt too small.
Too quiet.
He staggered out of bed, pacing, running a hand through his hair again and again.
"That's not possible," he muttered.
This was 2007.
He was twenty.
She was alive.
Healthy.
Laughing.
Yet his body remembered the panic.
The guilt.
The moment she died.
Slowly—terrifyingly—another realisation surfaced.
In that life…
She had loved him.
He could feel it now.
Not as a memory, but as certainty.
She had trusted him completely.
Adjusted herself around him.
Forgiven him again and again.
Even when he made her feel small.
Even when he broke her, piece by piece.
Michael stopped pacing.
His breathing steadied.
The panic ebbed—replaced by something colder.
More deliberate.
"So that's how it was," he murmured.
She hadn't left him because she didn't love him.
She had loved him too much.
And if that version of her existed once…
Then it could exist again.
A slow, dangerous calm settled over him.
He knew her habits now.
The way she softened when someone was gentle.
The way she responded to familiarity.
Consistency.
Emotional dependence disguised as care.
He picked up his phone, staring at the blank screen.
"She loved me," he said quietly.
That was the key.
That was the weakness.
This time, he wouldn't rush.
He would approach carefully.
Position himself as safe.
Reliable.
Someone she could lean on.
Michael straightened, his earlier terror completely gone.
Replaced by intent.
Outside, dawn had yet to break.
And somewhere else in the city, Hidayah slept peacefully—unaware that someone else had remembered a future she had already survived.