Ophelia
Morning comes, but I don't feel rested. I barely slept at all. All night, his message haunted me: "My Ophelia." I keep replaying it in my head, stunned, unable to make sense of how he knows that name or why he would use it. It's like he reached straight into my dreams and stole the secret I never meant to share. What was I supposed to say to that? I just stared at my phone, paralyzed, my mind tangled in fear and confusion. The hours crawled by. Sleep wouldn't come until exhaustion finally dragged me under, long after midnight. And when sleep finally claims me, he finds me again.
I'm in shackles, cold metal biting into my wrists, stone at my back. Dante stands over me, his eyes dark and sharp with accusation, his mouth twisted in a crooked, mocking smile.
"Well?" His voice echoes in the cell, cruel and curious. "Are you a witch, my Ophelia? Did you fool me? Did you do all the things they say you did?"
I lift my chin, defiant, even as fear prickles down my spine. "It wasn't me. I haven't done anything. Why won't you believe me?"
He circles closer, gaze burning through me, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "How can I believe you, when every piece of evidence points to you? When everyone says you're a liar, a traitor, a monster?"
Pain flashes across his face, raw and ugly, and I see the torment warring with the obsession in his eyes. His hand is suddenly at my throat, not choking but holding, thumb pressed to the flutter of my pulse. His mouth is so close to mine I can feel his breath, smell the wildness of him.
"Why do you lie to me, Ophelia?" he growls, cruel and desperate all at once. "After everything we've been through. After everything I've given you. Why should I believe you now?"
My body betrays me, heat, shame and anger tangled together. I want him close, I want him gone. My heart is shattering, and still, somehow, I crave the press of his skin, the softness in his threat.
"I'm not lying," I whisper, voice shaking. "I never lied to you. Never."
He looks at me, gaze flickering between hate and hunger, tenderness and rage. "How can a woman I once thought I loved do this to me?" His grip tightens, then softens, and for a moment, his lips nearly brush mine, like he might kiss me or curse me, I can't tell which.
And I wake, my skin is hot with confusion and longing, his voice still echoing in my ears.
Now, sunlight floods the kitchen as Eleanor and I eat breakfast together. I'm pushing cereal around my bowl like it's a crime scene. Eleanor is watching me like an amateur detective who knows I'm hiding something.
"So, are you going to tell me what's going on, or just keep sighing at your phone all day like a rejected Jane Austen heroine?" she finally asks, grinning.
I sigh again, and blurt, "You remember those dreams I keep having? The guy?"
Eleanor arches a brow. "Oh, you mean hot-mystery-dream-man who ruins your sleep and your standards? Yeah, I remember."
I groan. "He messaged me last night."
Eleanor almost spits out her coffee. "Wait. What? The dream guy? The one who looks like he eats lesser men for breakfast? You're not serious."
"Dead serious. His name is Dante. And he called me 'my Ophelia.' Just like in the dreams."
She stares at me, wide-eyed. "Are you sure you're not sleep-texting? I mean, I once ordered a pizza while dreaming. It happens."
I shake my head. "Nope. I have no idea how any of this is possible. He looks exactly like him, the eyes, the jaw, the 'could-smolder-a-city-with-a-glance' thing. I completely froze. I didn't even reply."
Eleanor laughs, but it's the nervous kind. "Girl, you need holy water. Or maybe an exorcist. If a guy from my dreams DMed me, I'd move to another continent and change my name to Mildred."
Later, we're lounging on the terrace. Eleanor is stretched out beside me, sunglasses on, looking like she's auditioning for a reality show called 'Sicilian Sun Queens.'
I hesitate, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Dante's profile. "You want to see what he looks like?" I ask, dropping my voice like I'm about to reveal a government secret.
She sits up so fast her sunglasses nearly fly off. "Obviously. Show me the forbidden fruit."
With a deep breath, I pull up Dante's Instagram and hand her my phone. I watch her face as she takes it, my chest tight.
She whistles, long and low. "Holy.. he looks like a walking felony. That man should come with a warning label and a fire extinguisher. And you're dreaming about him every night? Are you sure you're not actually dead and this is heaven?"
I laugh, cheeks burning. "I know, right? And he's real?! What the fuck? That's just freaky."
"And he keeps you in shackles, there?" she grins, waggling her eyebrows.
I nod, face hot.
Eleanor scrolls through his photos, shaking her head, giving me the side-eye. "He's not just real. He's unreal. If he messaged me, I'd just send him my location and hope for the best. You lucked out, Ophelia."
"Shut up, bitch. They're just dreams!" I protest, giggling.
Eleanor just grins. "What? Wouldn't you? Oh, wait, you already know exactly what that's like! Ophelia, you're living the mafia princess fantasy. Next, you'll be telling me you woke up with a mysterious tattoo and you don't do tattoos."
I roll my eyes. "Yeah, a real fairytale, where if I don't marry some dude I've never met, my grandparents end up dead. So dreamy."
She ignores me, scrolling. "Honestly, if he messaged me, I'd probably faint. Or sell my soul. Or both."
Her reaction makes me laugh so hard, the tension finally starts to slip from my chest. "Don't encourage me, I have enough troubles as it is!"
She hands the phone back, grinning. "Girl, with a face like that, trouble doesn't just find you, it moves in and redecorates."
I roll my eyes and do my best Chandler voice, "Could it be more fucked ?"
Eleanor cackles. "You're living a fever dream. If I see a white rabbit next, I'm staging an intervention."
I can't help but laugh too, even as the weirdness of it all knots my stomach. "It's not funny! I barely slept. I was up all night trying to figure out if I'm crazy. How is this possible, El?"
Eleanor shakes her head and gives me a look. "It's insane. Seriously, if I didn't know you, I wouldn't believe a word of this."
We take our breakfast out onto the terrace, the sun warm on our faces, the ocean stretching out forever. My father's house is right on the beach, and the world looks way too peaceful for how upside down I feel. Eleanor leans back, sunglasses on, soaking up her last bit of Sicilian sun.
"I can't believe I have to leave you here alone with all these mafia bodyguards and your hot, imaginary boyfriend, that is not so imaginary anymore." Eleanor groans.
"I hate it," I mutter. "This place is a gilded cage. I wish you could stay and help me survive my own melodrama."
Eleanor sighs dramatically, then gets serious. "Blame my father. If he actually let me stay, I'm thirty for fucks sake, I'd help you solve your hot-stalker conundrum. But for real, O, this is a lot. I'm sorry you have to do it alone."
"It's alright, El. I'm gonna be fine," I say, or at least that's what I hope.
For a moment, it's just the two of us: sun, sea, and a secret too wild to believe.
The driver comes to pick her up after lunch. We hug for a long time, both of us pretending not to be as sad as we feel. She squeezes my hand and whispers, "Don't let the dream guy murder you, okay?"
I manage a laugh and promise her I'll try. Then she's gone, and the house feels twice as empty. I wander back out to the terrace, letting the sun try to burn away the loneliness.
That's when my phone buzzes. A new message. From Dante.
My heart stutters, and the world tilts all over again.
Dante: Ophelia, you've got me checking my messages all morning.
Just the sight of his name sends a jolt through me. I stare at the message too long, paralyzed. I don't know what to say, how to sound normal when nothing about this feels normal. I leave him on read, biting my lip, heart racing.
A few minutes pass. Another message appears.
Dante: You're ignoring me, aren't you?
My cheeks flush. He's right, I am. I want to play it cool, but mostly, I don't know how to handle him, or the way he makes me feel: curious, nervous, reckless. Like I'm standing at the edge of something I can't see.
Finally, I type back:
Me: Why are you so interested in me anyway? What's so special about me?
There's a pause, then his reply flashes up almost too quickly.
Dante: You've got me curious. That's all.
For a moment, I almost laugh. He's trying to sound casual, but there's an edge underneath, something sharp and restrained. Still, I can't help myself; I want to see what happens if I push him.
Me: Oh, so you like girls who leave you on read and keep you guessing?
Dante: Only if they're pretty.
A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. I can feel the tension melting, replaced by a fluttery, dangerous thrill. I know I shouldn't flirt back, but I can't help it. He drags out this bold, reckless side of me I didn't know I had.
Me: Then you must be a glutton for punishment.
Dante: Maybe I am. Or maybe I just know what I want when I see it.
My heart pounds. Every word from him feels like a thread, winding tighter around me. I know I should pull away, but all I want is to keep reading.
Me: So, what do you want, exactly?
The reply comes instantly.
Dante: You.
The word burns through me. I bite my lip, heat rising in my chest. It's bold, shameless, almost funny, if it didn't make me ache. Because in my dreams, when he says he wants me, it's never a game. It's a threat. A promise. Something dangerous and all-consuming.
Me: Why me?
Dante:I have my reasons.
Me: That's not an answer.
Dante: Maybe I like a challenge. Maybe I like the way you look at me, even through a screen. Or maybe I just want to see how you taste saying my name.
I stare at the message, heart hammering. This version of him is so different, quick, teasing, almost charming. In the dreams, he's nothing like this. There, he's all shadows and accusation. Here, he's magnetic. Playful. Alive.
Me: You don't even know me.
Dante: Not yet. But I will. Tell me something real, Ophelia. Tell me what you're thinking right now.
What I'm thinking? That he terrifies me. That he fascinates me. That he makes me feel things I thought I'd buried. In my dreams, I crave his approval even when it hurts. Here, I crave his attention, his curiosity, his hands.
But I can't say that. So I type instead:
Me: I'm thinking you're trouble. The kind I should run from.
Dante: You say that like it's a bad thing.
Me: Maybe because it is.
Dante: Maybe it's the best thing that's ever happened to you.
A nervous smile tugs at my lips. I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't want him. But the truth is, I do. I want to keep flirting, to keep pushing, to see just how far he'll go. I want answers about the dreams, about him, about why I feel like I've known him forever.
I want more, even if I know I shouldn't.
Dante
Her reply arrives, playful and dismissive.
Ophelia: Maybe it is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.
I smile at the screen. It starts small and turns slow and hungry. I love the way she talks back. She is daring and careful at once. She tests limits as if the line itself is a challenge. Every word from her tugs a thread that already runs through my ribs.
Me: That is a risk I am willing to take.
Ophelia: You must be a glutton for punishment.
Me: Only if you are the one dishing it out.
She sends a laughing emoji. It should be nothing. It feels like a hit of something addictive. She makes me feel very alive. She makes me want to press harder and see what hides beneath the polish of her replies.
It is uncanny how much she echoes the Ophelia from sleep. Not the chained version the world calls dangerous. I am thinking of the one who smiles at me as if I am the only secret she will ever keep. The one who looks at me like I am the answer to a question she is not ready to admit. The one who loves me. I do not know why these dreams keep choosing me. I only know her voice lives in my head when I am awake.
I want to ask her everything. I want to ask if she wakes with my name in her mouth. I want to ask if she feels that old pull under her skin too. I hold it back. Not yet.
Me: Tell me, Ophelia. Are you always this dangerous, or am I just lucky?
A small pause. Then her typing bubble returns.
Ophelia: Maybe you bring it out in me.
I laugh under my breath. I want to see her say that. I want to know if her voice softens when she teases or sharpens when she decides to cut. I want to watch her mouth move and measure truth in her eyes.
Soon. She does not know it yet, but soon she will be here. Mine. The plan is already moving forward. I can be patient with her, even if patience never came easily to me. For now this is enough. Words. Wit. The ache that is more than body. I want to know her completely before I let the truth touch her.
Me: What are you doing right now, troublemaker.
Ophelia: Staring at my coffee like it has answers. You?
Me: Staring at a screen that refuses to give me enough of you.
Ophelia: That sounds like you have a problem.
Me: It is a problem that you started.
Ophelia: Bold of you to assume I started anything.
Me: Then let me correct it. You exist. That was enough.
The typing bubble appears and vanishes. She considers words before she sends them. Caution has its own heat when it belongs to her.
Ophelia: You are very confident for someone who knows nothing about me.
Me: I know more than you think. You bite your lip when you decide how honest to be. You choose your words like a surgeon chooses a blade. You enjoy being chased, but only by the right person. Tell me I am wrong.
A longer pause. I picture her somewhere quiet. I picture the light on her hair. I picture her eyes narrowing, not in anger but in focus, like she is lining up a shot. And then her question, sharp and soft at the same time.
Ophelia: And how do you know I bite my lip?
I almost smile. She doesn't know what I know. She doesn't know what I see when I close my eyes. The truth is, I've watched her do it a dozen times, but not here, not like this. In my dreams, she bites her lip when she's thinking, when she's afraid, when she wants something she won't let herself ask for. She doesn't know that. She thinks it's just a guess, a trick of observation. Maybe that's for the best. Some things are easier to explain in daylight than in dreams.
Ophelia: Maybe you are observant. That is not the same as knowing me.
Me: You are right. Tell me something true.
Ophelia: Like what?
Me: I will take anything you choose to give.
Ophelia: Not very ambitious.
I grin at the screen. She knows exactly what she is doing.
Me: Careful. I am good at turning small invitations into big conversations.
Ophelia: Sounds like a threat.
Me: More like a promise. Tell me something no one else knows.
Ophelia: That would ruin my mystery.
Me: Then give me a clue. Something that would make me look twice.
Ophelia: Maybe I already have.
Me: You have my full attention, Ophelia. What else do you plan to do with it?
Ophelia: I will let you wonder.
Me: You do that too well.
Another playful, half-closed look appears in the chat. Light and almost innocent, but it lands like a spark.
Ophelia: Tell me something about you.
Me: I do not sleep through the night.
Ophelia: Because you are too busy pretending to be mysterious online? *laughing emoji*
Me: Because I wake up looking for something that keeps not being there.
The typing bubble appears and disappears twice. I let the silence stretch. I want her to feel my patience. I want her to see that I do not need to devour her to keep her.
Ophelia: And what exactly are you looking for?
Me: You.
Another pause. The typing bubble appears, vanishes, and returns again.
Ophelia: I bet you tell that to everyone. *rolling eyes emoji*
I laugh quietly, the kind that sits deep in the chest. She is skeptical, playful, impossible not to adore. I can almost see her rolling her eyes, smirking at the screen while pretending not to care.
Me: You don't believe me?
Ophelia: You do not seem like someone who should be trusted.
Me: Good. You should not trust me. That is smart.
The conversation stills. I watch my faint grin in the glass. She is cleverer and sharper than she lets on. She knows how to keep me hooked.
Me: I will tell you another truth. I am not half as calm as I look. When I want something, I do not stop thinking about it.
Ophelia: That sounds exhausting. Maybe a bit obsessive.
Me: It is. Especially tonight.
The typing bubble flickers again, a heartbeat between us.
Ophelia: Why, especially tonight? You make everything sound like it has a secret behind it.
Me: Maybe it does. Maybe I do.
Ophelia: Then I should to be careful.
Me: Yes. You should.
Another silence stretches, soft and charged, humming with everything unsaid.
Me: You make me curious.
Ophelia: Curiosity killed the cat.
Me: Satisfaction brought it back.
She sends a photo. Not of her face, but a sliver of wrist with a thin bracelet. A book on her knee. Sunlight across her skin.
Me: Beautiful.
Ophelia: It is just a book.
Me: I was not talking about the book.
Ophelia: Flattery will get you nowhere, Dante.
Me: It will keep me here, which is exactly where I plan to be.
Ophelia: You plan. Interesting. Planning what?
Me: Conversation. Questions. An invitation you will pretend to resist and accept anyway.
Ophelia: And what makes you think I will give all these things to you?
Me: I know you will, Ophelia.
Ophelia: How do you know that? Wanting is not having.
Me: True. It is only the beginning. But you will not be able to resist me, darling.
I set the phone down and study the ceiling. The world feels clean when she talks to me. The noise falls away. She fills the frame without trying. I admire that about her. She shines without performance. She speaks like a woman who learned to wield silence before she learned to wield words. Iron under softness. It makes me want to kneel and conquer in the same breath.
The screen lights again.
Ophelia: Oh, but aren't you cocky?!
Me: I am being realistic.
Ophelia: Or delusional.
I laugh. She slices through my words and never flinches. I love the defiance, the spark, the refusal to be impressed. She has no idea what that does to me. I have always loved a challenge.
Me: Maybe I am delusional. It does not matter. I will take you anyway, even if I have to chain you to keep you. You would look too good trying to escape.
A pause. Then her reply.
Ophelia: I am not into that kind of thing.
Me: Oh, darling, trust me. You would like it.
Ophelia: Stop calling me darling. I am not your 'darling'.
Me: Oh, but baby, I usually do not wait for permission. I take what I want. But I will be patient with you.
The typing bubble flashes and disappears twice.
Ophelia: Didn't say you are not patient?
Me: I am not. Except with the right woman.
Ophelia: And what makes you think I am the right one?
Me: I just know.
She sends another eye roll in words. I can almost see the small twist of her mouth, the pretend indifference that reads like heat to anyone who knows where to look. She holds her ground, but I can feel the pulse under the playfulness. She is hooked, too, even if she will not admit it.
Me: Now I am waiting for you to tell me the thing you haven't said yet.
The screen stays still. No reply. Just her name echoing in my head.
A minute. Two. I let the space stand. She should feel that I will not rush her. She should learn my pace the way I am learning hers.
Ophelia: Fine. Here is one. I do not like the dark.
Me: Because it scares you?
Ophelia: Because it is too full, maybe. Does that make sense?
It makes perfect sense. Only someone who is truly, desperately alone would say that, the kind of alone that echoes. People think the darkness is empty, but it isn't. Not really. The dark has never scared me because it's empty; it scares me because it's alive. Because when the world goes quiet, all the things I keep hidden start to move. My heart and my mind are too full; they echo in the darkness, and suddenly there's nowhere left to hide. I understand that. I understand her.
Me: Yes. It makes sense, darling. Then we will fill it with something better.
Ophelia: We?? It is not like you can order the universe to make things better for me.
I smile at the screen. If only she knew.
Me: I know I cannot order the universe. But I can set fires loud enough to scare the dark away. I can burn a path through whatever tries to take your quiet and leave a place warmed for you to stand in.
There is a long pause before her reply.
Ophelia: That is... unexpectedly sweet.
It is not sweetness. It is a promise.
Me: I am often unexpected.
Ophelia: That is one word for it.
Me: Say your word.
Ophelia: Dangerous.
Me: Only if you try to run.
Ophelia: You say that like you would chase me.
Me: I would follow you anywhere.
Her reply comes smaller.
Ophelia: And if I did not want to be found?
Me: I wouldn't stop looking for you, anyway.
The typing bubble returns almost at once. She feels that. Good. She should. I am not here to scare her. I am here to build the exact space where her fear goes quiet.
Ophelia: You are very good at this.
Me: At honesty?
Ophelia: I do not believe a word you just said.
I smile and shake my head. She is beautiful, in doubt. It is written in her lines, the teasing disbelief, the way she wants to believe and refuses to let herself.
Me: You must've been hurt pretty badly to have trust issues this professional. Tell me, do they hand out degrees in disbelief now? Because you'd graduate top of your class.
Ophelia: Maybe, but It's safer like this.
Me: Safe is overrated.
Ophelia: Easy for you to say.
Me: Maybe. I am not trying to be easy. I do not like pretending.
A longer pause. Then her message lands.
Ophelia: I don't get it. Why are you so interested in me? You do not even know me. There are so many beautiful girls in the world. Yes, I know what I look like, but you do not know who I am inside. So what is it, Dante? What makes me so special?
I stare at her words. A slow ache spreads in my chest. She wants logic. There is none.
Me: I do not know if special is the right word. Maybe I recognize something familiar.
Ophelia: Familiar?
Me: Yes. Like I met you somewhere before. Maybe I never got over it.
Ophelia: That is a very expensive answer.
Me: You are a very expensive question.
Ophelia: I am not for sale.
Me: I was not offering money.
Ophelia: Then what were you offering?
Me: Myself?
Ophelia: Hmm...that is a lot for someone you do not know.
Me: I intend to fix that part.
Ophelia: Maybe not everything is fixable.
Me: I think you are worth the attempt.
I rest the phone on my knee and look out the window. The city hums like background music. She is the melody. I admire her restraint the way other men admire beauty. I admire her mind more than her mouth, and I already want to kiss her until she forgets which idea came first. I admire the spine under her softness and the quiet bravery of answering a stranger with truth.
The phone vibrates.
Ophelia: What would you ask me if I had to answer?
Me: What did you think when you first saw my name on your screen?
Ophelia: That I should run.
Me: And now?
Ophelia: That I should run faster.
Me: And yet you are still here.
Ophelia: Yet, I am still here..
Me: Good. Tell me what it feels like to be here.
Ophelia: Like standing at the edge of a pool at night. I want to jump. I know it will be cold. I think I will like it anyway.
Me: I will be the water. You will like it.
Ophelia: Cooky again.
Me: Certain.
Ophelia: You are impossible.
Me: Only unlikely.
Ophelia: Stop making me smile.
Me: Never.
She sends a photo of the sky. Clouds move like a slow breath. A corner of the balcony. The barest hint of her knee, as if she cannot resist leaving a thread for me to follow. She is careful. She is also generous in a way that feels private.
Me: Save that sky for me.
Ophelia: I will have the sea. You can have the sky.
Me: We will trade. I will take your darkness, and you can take my nights.
Ophelia: That sounds like a myth.
Me: It is a plan.
Ophelia: You and your plans.
Me: You and your storms.
Ophelia: Tell me something silly before I overthink everything.
Me: I burn toast every time. I never learned the right setting.
Ophelia: You, undone by a toaster?
Me: I am a man of contradictions.
Ophelia: I like contradictions.
Me: I noticed.
Ophelia: You notice too much.
Me: I notice enough to keep you safe.
A small pause. Then a softer line.
Ophelia: From what?
Me: From whatever tries to take your peace.
Ophelia: Including you?
Me: Especially me.
I let that sit. The truth should be clean. She will not have to guess where she stands with me. I can be the dark thing and the shelter. I can be the answer that does not demand a price she cannot pay.
Ophelia: You terrify me.
Me: You fascinate me.
Ophelia: I do not know which part wins.
Me: You do not have to decide that today.
Ophelia: Then what do I have to do today?
Me: Stay. Talk to me. Tell me one thing you want that has nothing to do with me.
She waits. Then truth arrives.
Ophelia: I want to feel safe?
Me: You will have it.
Ophelia: You promise a lot.
Me: I keep my promises.
Ophelia: Then promise something small.
Me: I will be here tomorrow morning. First message. Your name and good morning. Nothing heavy. Just proof.
A long pause that feels like a door opening.
Ophelia: Fine. Good morning, tomorrow.
Me: Good morning, tomorrow.
I lower the phone and breathe. She thinks she is steering. Good. She should feel safe enough to lead. I will let her set the speed while I decide the road. She can test, tease, withdraw, and return. I will match her step for step. I will admire the cut of her mind and the iron in her softness and the way she keeps storms in glass jars so she can hold them to the light.
Soon, I will ask for more. Not yet. For now, I will wait. I will play. I will let her keep believing she is the one in control. And I will keep writing her name as if it were a prayer that learned to smile.
Me: Sleep later. Eat something real. Text me if your darkness is too loud.
Ophelia: Bossy.
Me: Caring.
Ophelia: Fine. I will text you when it does.
Me: I will be waiting, my Ophelia.
I am always waiting for her, even when she is already in my hands.