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MY EYES SHOOT open. It was a dream. Ever since breaking up with Cole, my dreams are filled up with him. Every night, I see his angelic features and the devilish glint in his chocolate eyes triggering anger and agony. Tears of frustration would prick the corners of my eyes; I'd wake up with a pillow bearing a dried-up pool beneath my cheek. It's absolutely pathetic how a boy — a boy whose black heart is engulfed in evil — could strike me with a variety of negative emotions bubbling the desire for revenge. Revenge never leads to achieving the target, but with a mind shrouded by desperation, the virtuous strength within me yields to sin without a war. But it's only an ideal, not an aim; it's a fantasy, and fantasies don't morph into reality.

Cole was a dream. Dreams wilt into oblivion; they don't last because they're not real, just like his love. In movies and books, the couples' immortal love endure hardships thrown their way until the end of time, even if the beginnings of their love story mirror ours. Hate at first sight. I was foolish, so naive, to conjure up a vivid scene of us saying vows to love and to cherish 'till death do us apart. Our story was a sad book with a merry start and an ending gushing out tears. I remember the first time we met; every minute, second, and emotion. I remember insecurity blowing waves of dislike, and the judgemental squint in my eyes scanning him from top to bottom. Although loathing was capable of blinding me of the good inside him, it failed to blind me from his perfectly-moulded features, long ebony lashes from every girl's dream, and his faintly-curled stygian locks styled to perfection.

Like every other story, hints were hidden in paragraphs; hints so visible but blinded by love. Whenever my skin grazed his, he flinched — just a bit, barely noticeable. Whenever my eyes stared into his, guilt stirred in his chocolate eyes. I assumed four years of living at a boarding school made physical touch a foreign sensation; assumed the guilt was due to not feeling good enough for me, which was far from the truth. I was never suspicious — well, perhaps a bit, but blamed it on doubts. Every foreshadowing was set aside.

Flickering my gaze to the clock, I gasp. Panic surges into my body, and I frantically hop off bed. It's 7.15, fifteen minutes before school starts. Quickly, I run off to the shower, get dried before slipping into a black-and-white t-shirt and a pair of jeans. With my bag slinging on my shoulder clumsily, I sprint downstairs, expecting to see toast in between Kai's teeth and our parents hanging around. For the first time in forever, the living room is deserted like a desert. The sofas standing against the walls facing the TV are unoccupied, neither are the stools by the counter, and the stove isn't emitting sapphire flames beneath a steel pressure cooker. No people. No breakfast. Only lifeless objects.

Have they all died in their sleep? All three of them with their tongues sticking out of their mouths like dogs drooling for food but with dead eyes? Very, no, extremely unlikely. Undoubtedly, they have forgotten that this is a Friday, which translates to 'school' and 'work.' They should be up and running for the sake of their lives. But I can't blame them. Forgetfulness strikes the senile mind. Blood boiling, I dart to Kai's room in the second storey, next to mine.

I bang on the door. Instead of politely letting me enter, what greets me is the whine of a horse wounding my ears. Kai has a talent of looking like animals. The hair of a porcupine and the voice of a mare. "Let me in!" I exclaim.

"No!" he moans.

"Why not?" I shout.

"I need to sleep... s'mores," he slurs, and I could imagine him choking on his rancid saliva. "Or I'll die."