Page 46 of Before Dawn

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.”

~ William Shakespeare

The night blurred by in a haze of exhaustion, my parents rushing off to an emergency and leaving behind a warm tray of lasagna. I ate, hoping to find comfort in the rich, familiar flavors, but the loneliness crept in anyway.

And then, out of nowhere, it hit.

My chest tightened, breath coming too fast, too shallow. The air felt thick, unsteady, like I was sinking into something I couldn’t escape. Tears welled up and spilled over, hot and relentless, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t stop them.

It felt endless.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to focus. Inhale. Exhale. Count backward. Again. Again.

Slowly, theworld steadied. My pulse slowed. My body sagged with exhaustion.

I climbed back into bed, curling into the sheets, hoping sleep would dull the lingering ache in my chest.

Morning came with the sound of Aurora’s voice carrying through the hallway, light and unbothered.

What was it with the women in my life singing before the sun had even fully risen?

Stretching, I groaned softly, the weight from last night still lingering, though lighter now. Rubbing my eyes, I felt the mess of my curls—of course, I’d forgotten my bonnet.Thank God for silk pillowcases.

I reached for my phone, skimming my notifications, when one stopped me cold.

@mikkelsuarezofficial started following you.

“Oh my God!”

The words tumbled out in a squeal as I clutched my phone to my chest, as if I needed to physically hold on to the moment to make it real. A giddy laugh bubbled up before I flopped back against my pillows, eyes wide, heart pounding.

My fingers moved on their own, opening Instagram, scrolling with purpose until I found his profile.

And then I froze.

He liked my pictures.

Every. Single. One.

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I could see it—Mikkel, scrolling through my posts, lingering, taking in each photo.

Then my gaze snagged on something else.

Seventy million followers.

“What the fuck?”

I shot upright, gripping my phone tighter as the number looped through my mind.

Seventy million.

My pulse roared in my ears as I stared at his profile picture—the same face that had left me dazed the first time we met. There were only two posts on his page, both minimal, yet enough to leave an impression that felt impossible to shake.

This man was a phenomenon.

The first photo showed him on a beach at sunset, bathed in molten gold. His tousled hair, black glasses, and white linen shirt—unbuttoned just enough to tease the intricate tattoos on his chest—made him look effortlessly striking.

Did he always wear white?

---