Chapter One:
The Man in My Dream
The air in the ballroom was thick with the scent of jasmine and something deeper — a hint of sandalwood and old parchment, like a secret waiting to be told. Crystal chandeliers spilled pools of warm light across the polished floor, casting ripples that danced like liquid gold around us.
My dress, heavy and warm, swayed like silk on water as I turned slowly in a stranger's arms.
But he wasn't a stranger.
Not to my heart.
His eyes—the softest brown, but fierce like the edge of a storm, held mine as if he'd waited forever to see me again. His hand on my back felt familiar, like a memory I couldn't place. We danced gently, slowly. No one else existed in that dream but us. and for the first time I felt whole.
I wanted to speak, but the words slipped away, lost in the quiet music. I just stared at him, thinking, this is you. I've waited for you in this life too.
The violins played. He smiled. And then—
I woke up.
The bark of my neighbor's dog outside my window pulled me from the dream world back into the cramped reality of my rented studio in Quezon City. It was already 11:03 a.m. I had slept through my alarm again. S***t
I groaned, pulling the threadbare blanket over my face. The room smelled faintly of old books, dust, and the sharp tang of the city outside. But all I could think about was the dream.
That feeling. how he made me feel. whole.
That man.
It had been months since I left a relationship that had lasted seven long, bruising years. Seven years of silent tears whispered insults behind closed doors, and wounds that never fully healed. I stayed not because of love, but because I thought I had already wasted too much time to start again. When I finally left, I didn't cry. I didn't even feel relief.
I just went numb. I created this wall no one could ever imagine how high.
Since then, I'd tried to be the jolly, typical Libra again—or at least that's what people say. Loud when I was comfortable, laughing too much, disappearing into bar nights and sunrise walks home in jeans and chapped lipstick. But underneath, I was floating—detached, guarded, unreachable.
Not until that dream.
And not until him.
I first noticed Elián on a humid afternoon when the sky threatened rain but didn't deliver. The sun was a pale glare behind thick clouds as I stood outside our office building, scrolling through my phone.
He walked by quickly— tall, quiet, with headphones blocking out the world. There was something about the way the light caught the strands of his hair, the calm in his gait. It was ridiculous, but I stared at him like an idiot.
"No. Stop," I told myself. "You're being weird."
Three days later, I saw him again. This time, inside the elevator.
My heart stilled.
Same guy. Tall, pale-skinned, sharp jawline. Brown eyes that glowed golden under the flickering elevator light.
I stood frozen at the back, pressed against the buttons, pretending to check my phone while my whole body screamed, is it him? Is it the man from my dream?
I caught his scent—spicy, musky. Eros. The same cologne my dream self would have fallen for.
Then he moved.
The elevator dinged at the 8th floor — HR.
Our company's HR floor.
He stepped out like it was nothing.
Like he hadn't just shattered the boundary between dream and reality.
I was stunned.
Curious.
Every part of me wanted to follow him, to step out and pretend I had business there too.
But I didn't.
I stayed.
Let the doors close.
Let the moment pass.
And yet, something in me stayed open — like a door left ajar, waiting for a reason to swing wide.
After work, Isla and I ended up at our usual spot — that half-café, half-bar place with the moody lighting and overpriced cocktails we pretend not to care about. Fries in the middle, drinks in hand, the city buzzing just beyond the glass.
Isla dipped a fry into aioli and pointed it at me like she was about to deliver a sermon. "
You have that look. "She said"
I blinked. "What look?"
She narrowed her eyes. "The one that says: 'I saw someone today and now I have to overthink it for eight hours straight.' do tell," she said
I laughed because of course she knew. Isla always knows. She's been around since we were kids — the one who saw me grow, burn, break, rebuild. She's seen every version of me, even the ones I tried to hide.
"There's this guy," I said, swirling my drink like it held answers. "I've seen him twice now. Once outside. Then today… in the elevator."
Isla raised an eyebrow. "Hmm, Elevator guy. Go on."
"He's… weirdly familiar. Like, Déjà vu-familiar. And quiet. But there's something about him. That slow-burn, not-sure-if-I-imagined-it kind of energy."
She leaned back, smirking. "Oh no. That sounds like the plot of a breakup album. Are you sure he's real and not one of your dream guys again?"
I hesitated. "He's real. I think. But yeah… he feels like someone I already know."
Isla grinned the kind that said this is dangerous but delicious. "Babe. Either you're cursed by the stars or he's your karmic return."
She paused, then added, "Just promise me — if he says something poetic and disappears for three weeks, I'm allowed to slap you with a tote bag."
I smirked. "Deal."
Outside, the city kept moving — cars, lights, lives. But in that little corner booth, with Isla across from me and the taste of salt and citrus on my tongue, I felt something I hadn't in a while.
Lighter.
Not fixed.
But maybe… not entirely broken anymore.
Two days after the elevator encounter, the company formally introduced him during a morning meeting.
Our company, Lumina Content Solutions, was a big player in creating corporate training materials and book-related digital services. I was the Project Manager, technically handling a team of developers and content creators to deliver seamless products for clients.
Elián was one of the developers assigned to our team.
When someone mentioned, "He'll be on your team, Mara," my lips betrayed me.
"Shit," I whispered under my breath.
No one noticed. But inside, my mind raced.
The meeting was a blur after that. I remember my hand reaching out automatically to shake his when he introduced himself. The electricity that zinged through my fingers when our skin touched caught me by surprise.
I smiled too wide and said something stupid—a quiet, awkward "Hi."
He nodded politely, his lips curving into a small, husky smile that would later ruin me.
I don't think he even remembered me from the elevator.
That night, I couldn't help myself. I searched for him online.
I found a profile with no public posts, no mutual friends, just a blank face and an aura that screamed I don't talk to people.
I sent him a message from a dummy account I used to play games anonymously:
"Hey! You looked familiar. Were you in the elevator the other day? 😅 I'm Mara btw!"
No reply.
The next day, I tried again:
"Sorry, I'm being weird haha. Just thought I saw you around. Hope work's treating you okay!"
Still no reply.
I told myself I'd stop.
But I didn't.
For two weeks, I checked obsessively if he'd read the message. I joked with my friends that it was just a crush, a fantasy.
Then one random Saturday at 2:07 a.m., he finally replied.
"Hi. Sorry. I'm not usually online."
Three words. That was it.
But God—I screamed into my pillow like a teenager.
It was embarrassing. But it was also the first real Butterflies I'd felt in years. After seven years of trauma and silence, I felt something again. Something that made my heart beat so fast I thought I'd pass out.
Our conversation slowly picked up.
It was never easy. He was quiet, short with his replies, and never asked much back. But I kept pushing, kept talking. I didn't even know why.
Maybe because I'd already met him in a dream.
One night, out of nowhere, he called me.
I stared at my screen for ten seconds before answering.
"Hello?" My voice was barely steady.
"I just… wanted to hear what you sound like," he said.
That was the first night we talked until dawn.
He was awkward. I was noisy.
He'd ask:
"Do you always talk this much?"
And I'd laugh:
"No. Just when I like someone."
Silence.
Then a low chuckle.
A week later, I texted boldly:
"Let's go out."
He replied,
"I live far from Quezon City."
I shot back,
"Let's meet halfway then."
He didn't reply right away.
When he finally said yes, I smiled like a girl in love with her hallucination.
Later, he admitted the dummy account wasn't his main one.
"Add me on my real account," he said, sending a new username.
I did.
And just like that, the line between dream and reality blurred.