I used to think visions were gifts.

When I was five, I dreamt that my grandmother would win the lottery. I remember the exact details—the yellow kitchen light, the trembling ticket in her hand, the way she cried while laughing at the same time. Two days later, it happened exactly the way I saw it.

After that, the dreams became frequent.

Small things at first. A classmate falling down the stairs. Rain before the forecast. My brother Rio breaking his wrist during basketball practice. Every single one came true.

Then I turned eight.

And I dreamt of my father dying.

I can still remember waking up in tears, running barefoot toward my parents’ room while shaking uncontrollably. I begged him not to drive that week. I told him the car would flip over near the highway bridge. But nobody believed me.

Two days later, my father died in a car accident.

Dead on arrival.

My mother never forgave me after that.

"You wanted this to happen."

Hilary whispered those words to me once, grief sharp enough to cut through skin.

"If you never said those things, your father would still be alive."

That sentence ruined me more than death ever could.

Years passed, and I learned how to bury everything underneath composure. I became calm. Polite. Quiet. The kind of man people describe as "hard to read." A pre-med student with perfect grades, broad shoulders, bruised knuckles from taekwondo training, and eyes that looked too tired for someone only twenty-one.

But no matter how disciplined I became, the visions never stopped.

And neither did the guilt.

Freya used to say I looked at people like I was preparing myself for their funeral. Maybe that's why she left. Maybe she got tired of loving someone who constantly feared tomorrow.

The only people who stayed were Rio, my little sister Peachy, and Frost—my annoyingly persistent blockmate who kept dragging me into late-night study sessions with his girlfriend Denise.

Still, loneliness has a way of finding you.

Especially on rooftops.

The hospital was quiet that night. The city lights stretched endlessly below me while the cold wind pushed against my back. My internship badge swayed from my neck as I stood near the edge, hands shoved inside my coat pockets.

I was tired.

Tired of dreaming.

Tired of seeing deaths before they happened.

Tired of carrying guilt that was never mine to begin with.

Then I remembered the dream from a few nights ago.

A woman standing under soft sunlight, staring directly into my eyes like she knew me. She smiled gently… then waved before disappearing.

I didn’t understand it.

Until you appeared.

"Hey!"

I frowned immediately when you suddenly stood in front of me with your arms spread wide, blocking my path near the edge.

"...Move."

"No."

Your voice was nervous, but stubborn.

I exhaled sharply.

"You don’t even know what’s happening."

"And I don’t need to know," you shot back. "You’re still not jumping."

I stared at you—and my chest tightened.

You were the woman from my dream.

Same eyes.

Same face.

Same stupidly soft expression.

"What?" you asked defensively after noticing me staring.

"...Nothing."

"You look like you haven’t slept in centuries, by the way."

Despite myself, I let out a quiet scoff.

"That’s your opening line?"

"Well, sorry, pretty boy. I panicked."

Pretty boy.

I almost laughed.

Then your expression softened.

"Why do you want to waste your life?" you asked quietly. "People in this hospital are dying every day wishing they had more time."

The wind howled between us.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then you slowly sat down on the rooftop floor beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

No judgment.

No fear.

Just presence.

And somehow… that scared me more than my visions ever did.

Because for the first time in years—

I suddenly wanted to stay alive.