That sickly feeling when you realize you don’t know how to love. You only know how to be devoted like a dog which has been abused all its life yet licks the hand which beats it.
Synopsis: A stranger you’ve never met before keeps telling you he’s from the future, and how he was actually your lover. You don’t believe his nonsense, until all his predictions come true.
You're not sure when it started.
But some guy you've never seen before has been following you around. Openly. He wasn’t even trying to be discreet about it.
Walks next to you like he belongs there, like you've been doing this for years.
At first you just thought he was a weirdo.
Then, he started telling you stories about yourself.
Not guesses. Not vague stuff anyone could assume.
Actual memories. Things you don’t ever remember telling anyone.
"You broke your wrist in third grade falling off the monkey bars," he said one afternoon, walking beside you like it was normal. "You cried because you thought your mom would be mad about the hospital bill."
You stopped walking.
"How do you know that?"
Was someone pranking you here? Because this wasn’t funny anymore.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he just smiled. Not smug. Not teasing.
It was soft and fond. Like he was remembering something precious.
No… He just followed you. Talked to you. Smiled at you like he knew you better than anyone else.
So, you confronted him yourself.
"Why are you doing this?"
He looked at you quietly for a second. Then said something that made your skin crawl.
"You just haven't fallen in love with me yet."
You stared. "…Yet?"
He nodded as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.
After that, the stories changed.
No more childhood memories. Instead, he started talking about your future.
"Next Tuesday your professor will cancel class."
"Your friend Mina will spill coffee on your notes tomorrow."
"You'll take an extra shift at the gas station this week."
Total nonsense, obviously. You laughed it off.
Yep, definitely a hooligan. You labeled him in your mind.
But he said this nonsense so many times you accidentally memorized the lines.
Which is why, when your coworker opens her mouth, your stomach drops.
"Hey, you're on night duty today."
"What? No I'm not!"
She pouts. "Oh, come on!! Please cover this shift for me, I promise I'll make it up to you."
You owe me three other times already.
She begs and begs. Eventually you sigh.
"Fine."
The second the word leaves your mouth, your chest goes cold.
Because you've heard this before.
From him.
Night shifts at the gas station are the worst. Too quiet. Too empty. Just the hum of the fridge and the occasional owl from the forest behind the store.
You hate working during these hours, it gave you the creeps. The feeling of being watched.
The bell above the door jingles.
A middle-aged man stumbles in, his walk wobbly. Even from behind the counter, you can smell the alcohol, signaling to you that he must be drunk.
Great.
You force a customer service smile as he approaches. "Good evening, sir, can I help—"
"You."
He points a shaky finger at your face.
"Where's that other wench that works here? Why isn't she here tonight?"
Your blood goes cold.
Word for word.
“Sir, can I help you buy something?” Your voice came out thin. Small. “Maybe some water? Coffee?”
“Don’t ignore me!” He slapped the counter. The bottle in his hand—wine, red wine, just like he said—swung through the air. “I asked you a question!”
You fumbled for the phone in your pocket. But it was too slow. The drunk man was already coming around the side of the counter, eyes wild, breath sour.
“Damn it, stop ignoring me!”
Suddenly he's right in front of you. His hand lifts a wine bottle high in the air, aimed straight at your head.
You can't move. Can't think. Just that same sentence echoing over and over.
You'll be attacked at night in the gas station.
You saw it coming. Saw the arc of it, the way the light caught the green glass. You knew what was about to happen, yet you still couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but close your eyes and scream— “AAHHHH”
SLAM.
The sound followed. Not glass breaking. Not your skull caving in.
A body hitting the far wall.
The crashing sound of shelves collapsing. Candy bars and chip bags and cheap lighters scattering across the floor.
Then silence.
“It’s okay,” The soft, familiar voice quietly whispers. “Open your eyes. I’ve got you.”
You couldn’t believe the thought that crossed your mind. The voice you’d grown used to hearing… for the first time, you were actually relieved to hear.
You hesitate. Then slowly… you do.
You opened your eyes.
The drunk man was crumpled against the opposite wall, groaning, the wine bottle shattered beside him. And standing between you and him—calm, unhurried, brushing dust off his sleeve—was the hooligan.
His smile was gentle.
Lovesick.
Like he hadn’t just thrown a full-grown man across a convenience store.
“Don’t be afraid.” He stepped closer, “I said I got you.”
You, however, couldn’t speak. Could only stare as he reached over the counter and took your shaking hands in his. His palms were warm. Steady.
"I got here a little earlier this time," he says thoughtfully.
"Last time you needed stitches." He mutters to himself.
Your blood turns to ice.
Last time?
He steps closer to the counter, resting his arms on it casually. As if this were just a normal visit. Like he's done this a thousand times before.
His gaze softens as he looks at you.
“Do you believe me yet?” He laughed softly, like this was all some private joke between the two of you. Meanwhile his eyes never left your face. Hungry. Adoring. Wrong.
You can't answer. Your brain is still stuck on last time.
He chuckles quietly, and tilts his head. Watching your face with lovesick patience.
Then his voice drops to something gentler. Something terrifyingly certain.
"Good. Now all you have to do… is fall for me a little faster this time."
