*This is fiction, based purely on a dream.

Let’s call him Mr. T.

We met years ago, in that strange in-between time when I was half healing and half pretending I already had. He messaged me out of nowhere and asked me out. He was already doing well for himself. I was looking for stability, or at least the illusion of it. Saying yes didn’t feel reckless. It felt like an attempt at starting over.

He picked me up in a black Benz, the kind that makes a quiet statement. The car smelled faintly of oud. Loud Hindi music filled the air as he drove, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. I remember thinking he must be the type who comes alive at parties, the kind who dances without caring who’s watching. The music was blaring though, far too loud for the car’s terrible speakers, and for a moment I wondered if he heard anything at all beyond himself.

He took me to a dim, lifeless café. We shared shisha and small talk, both hollow. He talked mostly about his work, his travels, his own charm. I smiled politely and realized I wasn’t interested. There was something performative about him, something that left no room for anyone else. I never called him again after that night.

Years passed. I heard he was seeing someone new. She was beautiful.. I remember thinking good for her, then wondering if she saw in him what I had seen. I was lonely, restless, and maybe a little self-destructive. So I texted him.

He replied instantly. Some people never change.

We went out again. This time it wasn’t dinner or shisha. We drove until the streets were empty, stopping in a ghostly patch of moonlight where even the air felt still. Same car. Same faint oud scent.

And then I did something that, even in the dream, felt unreal. I leaned over the hood of his car and let him. It was raw and detached, like watching myself play a role I didn’t audition for. When it was over, I sent a clip to his girlfriend from a fake account, which I had taken of us, with the message, ‘come get your man’.

Pure evil. The kind I’d never even imagine doing in real life.

He found out. Of course he did.

That evening, the roads were heavy with traffic, headlights streaking across puddles like restless thoughts. I followed him to the same spot where it happened. He was standing outside his car, angry, pacing. I hid across the street, watching.

And suddenly, in the logic of dreams, I was holding a gun.

I fired first, missing him on purpose. The sound was deafening. He froze for a moment, then pulled out a gun of his own. He fired back. The bullets cut through the air, hitting the ground near my feet. I dropped, feeling the vibration of each shot echo through the earth. I wasn’t sure if he was warning me or trying to kill me. After the third bullet, I decided it didn’t matter.

I aimed at his chest and fired.

He fell.

The silence after was unbearable.

I got up and walked up to his car and drove away. My hands were trembling against the leather steering wheel. My reflection in the rearview mirror looked like a stranger.

As I drove past police officers directing traffic, I could feel my pulse in my throat. I kept thinking there was no way I’d get away with this. There were cameras everywhere, even in the car. I wondered why I had done it, why I had gotten into his car, why I hadn’t just walked away.

But then another thought crossed my mind, maybe the longer I delayed turning myself in, the longer I could pretend I was still free.

So I kept driving.

The night air felt heavy. My eyes started to blur with exhaustion. All I could think about was my bed, the way the sheets felt, the quiet comfort of sleep. I knew I’d never feel that again.

That was my last thought before I woke up.