She met him on a rainy Thursday. The kind of day when clouds looked like old dreams and the streets whispered poetry.

His name was Eren, and from the moment he spoke, she felt her world tilt.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said, smiling softly. “In a dream, standing under cherry blossoms.”

Lina laughed then—nervous, uncertain—but intrigued. No one had ever spoken to her like that. Like she was a page in a novel waiting to be read.

He didn’t chase her like others.
He studied her.
He remembered small things—how she bit her lip when she was unsure, how she hated the sound of ticking clocks.

With him, the world became art.
He painted futures with words.
They walked through forests and imagined building a cabin there.
They lay on rooftops counting stars, naming them after the children they’d one day have.
He’d whisper things like, “If your soul had a sound, it would be the wind through autumn leaves.”

She didn’t just fall in love with him.
She fell in love with the version of herself she saw through his eyes.

Weeks turned into months. And the dreams they built together became the reason she smiled every morning.

But dreams can turn.

One evening, she arrived at his apartment to surprise him.
She carried a small box—a keychain with their initials and a tiny silver moon.
A gift to say, “I’m yours.”

But when she opened the door, she found silence—and shadows.

And then she saw her.

Another girl. In his shirt.
Holding his mug.
Calling him love.

The girl froze. Eren stood behind her, caught but calm.
He didn’t panic.
He didn’t apologize.

He simply said, “You knew this wasn’t real forever… didn’t you?”

Her breath stopped.

“But the stars,” she whispered, tears falling, “the dreams… the names we gave the sky…”

“They were just moments,” he replied, “not promises.”

She walked away, barefoot, keychain clenched in her fist, the silver moon digging into her palm.

That night, she cried not just for the loss of him—but for the version of herself she’d given away.

She had believed in the imaginary world they built together.
But he had only visited it.
She had lived in it.

Months later, she returned to the rooftop they once claimed as theirs. The stars were still there—silent, distant, constant.

She sat alone, the wind brushing her hair.

This time, no one whispered poetry.
No one promised forever.
But the moon shone gently.

And she whispered to herself,
“Never again will I mistake dreams for love.”

And for the first time, the silence didn’t hurt.
It healed.