I Loved Her. Then I Killed Her Dreams

It should've been a good memory.

Something soft.

Something warm, like a blanket pulled over a sleeping child. The kind of warmth that burrows under your skin and stays there for years—becoming part of your bones, your heartbeat, your breath.

But even good memories can rot if you don't store them right.

If you leave them in the wrong corner of your mind—

—where the air's too damp, where the light doesn't reach.

They mold. Fester. Curl in on themselves like dying leaves in the bottom of a forgotten drawer.

They warp in the corners where you weren't looking.

Where you trusted yourself to forget.

Where silence became permission.

He remembered her hand, reaching out for him.

Yena's.

Warm.

Steady.

Strong.

Too strong, maybe.

The kind of strong that doesn't shake. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't break.

Not even when it should.

He remembered the way her voice sliced through the boys' taunts—

like a guillotine wrapped in satin.

Elegant.

Sharp.

Deadly.

Her words had hit like sugar-laced poison. The boys didn't even realize they'd been cut until the blood came gurgling up between their smirks.

And Soren remembered feeling—safe.

Just for a moment.

A flicker.

A lie.

It was like someone struck a match in a frozen room.

Not enough to last.

But enough to trick you into hope.

But now, two days later, the memory itched.

Not like a scar.

Like a bite.

Like something was burrowed beneath it, chewing.

Gnawing at it from the inside out.

Quietly. Patiently. Lovingly.

Like it knew him.

Like it belonged there.

Like it had always been there.

Nestled. Waiting.

Waiting for his guard to drop.

Waiting for the lie to taste sweeter than the truth.

The mirror hadn't spoken since the last message.

Since it told him:

"She's lying."

But it hadn't needed to speak again.

Because now, it watched.

And he felt it.

Every damn time Yena was near.

The air shifted.

Not dramatically. But enough to feel like pressure building behind his ribs.

Like the atmosphere had changed and nobody else noticed.

It was the kind of cold that didn't come from outside.

It hugged your ribs from the inside,

clung to your spine like forgotten grief.

It didn't scream.

It settled.

It infected.

It crept down his vertebrae like dripping wax turned to frost.

It made his bones ache like they remembered winters they never lived through.

The kind of winters that bury bodies beneath snow and silence.

The kind of cold that wears a face.

Every time Yena's hand brushed his arm,

or her breath ghosted too close to his skin—

the mirror fogged.

But not from steam.

Not from heat.

Not from anything living.

From something else.

Something older.

Hungrier.

The lightbulb flickered—without cause.

His fingertips tingled—without warning.

His spine locked—without reason.

He told himself it was nothing.

Coincidence.

Stress.

An overactive mind chewing on shadows.

Grief hallucinating its own company.

He told himself ghosts weren't real.

That Yena was still the girl who once pulled him from the dark.

But then…

the dreams started.

The first night, he dreamed of Aurela.

Not in the hallway.

Not by the lake.

Not anywhere real.

But in the mirror.

Only—she wasn't alone.

Yena was there.

Behind her.

Smiling like she'd won something.

Like it had been a game all along.

And only one of them ever knew the rules.

Aurela's wrists were bound with black thread.

Her mouth covered by a veil of glass shards.

She tried to speak—

but blood rushed through the cracks.

She tried to reach him—

but the mirror pulled her back.

She clawed at the glass with broken nails.

And Yena?

She held a book.

A small, crumpled journal.

Soft leather. Broken spine.

Pages that looked like they ached to be read.

Pages that reeked of secrets and sacrifice.

One name per page.

Names Soren didn't recognize.

But the mirror did.

And each page Yena tore from it,

she fed to the mirror.

The mirror opened like a mouth.

Teeth made of reflection.

Tongue made of frost.

And it swallowed the names whole.

Aurela screamed.

Not in pain.

In warning.

In recognition.

In betrayal.

And that scream—it stayed in his ears when he woke.

Like someone had left a part of the dream behind.

Like it hadn't just been a dream at all.

Like it was realer than waking.

He woke up choking.

The air felt thick,

as if something had been breathing in the room with him just seconds before.

Something wrong.

Something wet.

Static buzzed under his skin.

The kind of electric silence that comes after lightning.

Like something had come and gone—or worse—was still there.

The mirror was fogged again.

But this time…

it was bleeding.

Thin, delicate veins of red laced across the frost.

Hairline cracks filled with something that wasn't quite blood.

As if something behind the glass was pressing out.

Trying to break free.

Trying to whisper.

Trying to reach him.

He touched the surface.

And it burned.

Not fire-burn.

Not stove-hot.

That holy, revenge kind of cold.

The kind that numbs before it kills.

The kind that belongs to things that died angry.

The kind that never forgave.

And he whispered—

"What are you trying to tell me?"

But the mirror stayed silent.

Not dumb.

Not unaware.

Just… mocking.

Because it knew the answer already.

It knew he already knew too.

He was just afraid to say it out loud.

And maybe…

maybe the mirror liked fear.

Maybe it fed on it too.

The next morning, he saw her again.

Yena.

Near the hallway.

Room 213.

The room no one talked about.

The room the janitors never cleaned.

The room that always smelled like old books and locked secrets.

Like mildew and shame and mouths that were never allowed to scream.

The door had scratches on the inside.

He remembered that now.

Not like from furniture.

But like fingernails.

Like someone begged to get out.

She didn't see him watching.

Or maybe she did.

And just didn't care.

This time, she was holding something.

A photo.

Just for a second before she slipped inside the door.

The back of it read:

VALE CLASS 10A

Another student.

Another offering.

Another name.

He stepped forward—

heart in throat, stomach in knots.

But the janitor appeared at the other end of the hallway.

And he hesitated.

Just long enough to lose her.

Just long enough to break the spell, but not the suspicion.

And in that hesitation—

he swore he heard it.

A whisper.

Wet.

Guttural.

Familiar.

"More. More. Feed us more."

It echoed in places ears weren't made to hear.

It dripped between the ribs.

It stayed.

Later that day, Yena sat beside him at lunch.

As always.

She smiled.

As always.

She asked if he was okay.

Touched his arm just a second too long.

Watched him like a guardian.

Or a hunter.

"You've seemed distant," she said softly, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Is it the mirror again?"

He flinched.

"Why would you say that?" he asked.

Too fast. Too loud.

She tilted her head.

The exact way a cat tilts its head at a cornered mouse.

Curious. Cold. Playful.

Maybe a little bored.

"Because you told me," she said.

"That night, before the doctors… before you stopped talking."

But he hadn't.

He never had.

Not about the mirror.

Not about Aurela.

Not about anything real.

"No," he said slowly.

Testing her.

Drawing the blade across the lie.

"I never said anything about a mirror."

She blinked.

Once.

Too slow.

Too intentional.

Then she laughed.

Softly.

Brushing it off like ash from her lap.

"Oh? I guess I just… guessed. Sorry."

He nodded.

Pretended it was fine.

Pretended she wasn't already halfway down the list of monsters in his head.

But inside—

something screamed.

It had been screaming for a long time now.

He had just stopped listening.

That night, he didn't sleep.

At 4:04 AM, the mirror opened.

Not like a door.

Like a mouth.

Except this time,

it didn't devour.

It spit something out.

A paper.

Folded.

Burnt at the edges.

Soaked in frost.

Like it had been inside the mirror's gut.

Living there. Festering. Waiting.

He reached for it—

And as his fingers brushed it, a voice.

Not Aurela.

Not Yena.

His own.

"I saw her feed them."

He unfolded the paper.

It was a photo.

Another girl.

Same uniform.

Same dead eyes.

Room 213 in the background.

And in the corner?

Yena.

Holding the feather.

His feather.

The one he thought belonged to Aurela.

The one he kept in his drawer.

The one he thought protected him.

It hadn't.

He ran to the library.

Yearbooks.

Class rosters.

Missing persons binders.

Vale Class 10A.

10B.

9C.

He found four girls.

All smiling beside Yena.

All marked with a small black star in the "Missing Reports" binder.

Tiny symbols.

For ugly truths.

All names he'd never heard spoken.

All names the teachers never mentioned.

He opened the drawer under the mirror again.

There were four feathers.

Black.

Cold.

Dead.

And behind them?

A note.

Scratched into the wood.

Nails, maybe.

Or something sharper.

"She feeds us names."

"She thinks it'll keep us quiet."

"But we're still here."

The mirror didn't just reflect him.

It reflected the truth.

The past.

The girls.

The rot.

The blood.

The lie he'd been living inside.

A lie wrapped in friendship.

Painted in concern.

Laced with silence.

He confronted her the next day.

Didn't mean to.

Didn't plan it.

Just… couldn't hold it in anymore.

His voice cracked halfway through.

His hands trembled like they knew this would be the end.

"Why were you in that photo?"

Yena paused.

Too long.

"What photo?"

"Room 213," he said.

"With those girls. They're gone now. Missing."

She laughed.

Softly.

The laugh of someone who's already decided the outcome.

"That's a weird thing to ask, Soren."

"It's not weird," he said. "It's true."

Her eyes changed.

Not dramatically.

Just emptied.

Like someone turned the light off behind them.

"Some things are better forgotten," she said.

"They were hurting," she added.

"I helped them leave."

"That's not help," he said. "That's—"

"Mercy," she whispered.

"You said it yourself. This world is cruel."

He stepped back.

Her voice was too calm.

Too sweet.

Too practiced.

"You didn't save me from those boys," he whispered.

"You showed up so I'd trust you."

"You're feeding it. The mirror. You're feeding it them."

Yena smiled.

That same old smile.

But this time—it didn't pretend.

This time, it gleamed.

"And now I'm feeding it you."

Soren ran.

Didn't breathe right.

Didn't think right.

Didn't look back.

But in his head—

they followed.

The girls.

The ones who vanished.

The ones who screamed from behind the glass.

"You forgot us."

"You let her near."

"Don't let her finish you too."

And in the reflection—

the mirror laughed.

Not a sound.

Not a voice.

Just a shimmer in the glass.

A smile he didn't make.

A shadow that looked like him, but didn't move when he did.

And that's when he knew—

It was already too late.

END OF CHAPTER 7