It was the night of July 23th, 2025, when I slipped into sleep with no idea that my dreams would once again unfold like a cinematic tale, half-rooted in reality and half in some strange, parallel universe that only visited me when I shut my eyes.
I saw myself walking down a dusty street with plastic bags filled with groceries in both hands. The sun was beginning to dip behind the rooftops, casting a golden haze on the narrow lanes. I was on my way home, thinking of nothing in particular, when I found myself pausing in front of an old community hall. My feet ached slightly from walking, so I sat on a low wall just outside the building.
Inside and outside the hall, there were groups of boys and girls scattered around—some in neat, clean uniforms from expensive schools, others in faded and patched clothes from government schools. There was a divide not just in what they wore, but in how they carried themselves. Some giggled and shared snacks, while others stared quietly, reserved.
One boy among them stood out. He had sharp eyes and messy hair and was sitting with his back against the wall, chatting with a group. But every now and then, his eyes would wander to me. At first, I ignored it, pretending to scroll through my phone, but I could feel his gaze lingering, tracing the outline of my face. It made me uncomfortable.
When I stood up to leave, he did too. I turned the corner and quickened my pace. My heart skipped as I realized he was following me.
"Why are you following me?" I turned around, clutching my bag tightly.
He stopped, caught off guard. "I'm not following you. My house is this way too," he said, raising his hands like he was surrendering.
His voice wasn't threatening. It even sounded a little nervous. But I didn't trust easily, not even in dreams.
"Then walk ahead of me," I said firmly.
He nodded and walked past. As he did, he looked at me once more, his expression unreadable.
I resumed walking, thinking I was finally safe, but then the dream shifted.
Suddenly, I was not on a street anymore, but in an alley where a massive bull—a Bull, its eyes bloodshot and wild—came charging from behind. I froze. Two girls in front of me screamed and ran. I didn't need to think. Instinct took over.
We ran. The sound of hooves clashing against concrete echoed behind us like thunder. My breath came in sharp bursts. We turned a corner and burst into the open door of a random house. The bull followed.
"Upstairs!" someone shouted, and we scrambled up the staircase two steps at a time. But the sand was relentless. It charged through the house like a beast possessed.
Reaching the terrace, we leaped—yes, leaped—from one roof to the next, risking our lives with each jump. It was terrifying. The space between buildings looked too wide, the drop too deadly, yet somehow we made it across.
But then I realized—I had lost my bag.
"No, no, no…" I whispered, patting my back and then the floor. It was gone. My money, my ID, my books, and my phone—all gone. Panic washed over me.
I wanted to turn back, to find it. But when I turned around, the bull was right there—snorting, stomping, its horns pointed directly at me. My legs refused to move. I took one step backward. Then another. The bull advanced.
And then—I tripped. Fell on the ground with a gasp, curling up, expecting pain… but instead of goring me, the bull came close and began to lick my face.
It was surreal.
Warm tears welled in my eyes. The fear, the adrenaline, and the absurdity of being licked by a bull overwhelmed me. The bull wasn't trying to hurt me. It wanted to… love me?
"Why?" I whispered. "Why are you being gentle?"
That's when the boy from earlier appeared again.
"I found your bag," he said, holding it out. "You dropped it when you ran."
I stood up slowly, still shaken. "Thank you…"
He handed me the bag with a soft smile. Then, looking more serious, he asked, "Are you in depression?"
"What?" I blinked at him, stunned.
"Ever since I saw you, not once have you smiled. Not once. You look like you're carrying the weight of the whole world."
His words were too sharp, too real. I opened my mouth to deny it, but nothing came.
"I'm not depressed," I finally said. "I just don't fake smiles for strangers."
He frowned. "You don't know me, that's true. But sometimes strangers see more than friends do."
"Don't try to act like you know me," I snapped. "You've been following me since earlier. You're the strange one."
His eyes narrowed. Hurt flickered across his face.
"You think I'm trying to harm you?" he asked. "Fine."
In one swift motion, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small knife—not to stab, but to do something even more shocking.
Before I could react, he stepped closer and cut off my long braid with the blade.
I gasped. "What the hell are you doing?!"
He held the braid in his hand like a trophy.
"You look better with short hair," he said. "You looked like someone trapped. Now you look free."
Tears stung my eyes—not because of the hair, but because of the violation. That braid had been mine. It was part of my identity. My strength. My mother had combed it as a child. I had protected it like a shield.
"You had no right," I whispered.
But he wasn't listening. He turned around and walked away with my braid still clutched in his hand.
I tried to follow, but my head began to throb violently. My vision blurred. I saw him standing at a corner, murmuring something over the braid. His lips moved fast, like he was chanting.
"What… are you doing?" I shouted, but he didn't stop.
A sharp, searing pain shot through my skull. I fell to my knees, holding my head. My body trembled, and it felt like my thoughts were being pulled out of me.
He was doing something—some kind of black magic—with my braid.
I screamed.
And then I woke up.
Drenched in sweat.
My hand instinctively reached to my hair. My braid was still there. But I could still feel the sting of the knife. The betrayal. The helplessness.
I sat there on my bed, trying to breathe, wondering what it all meant.
Why did the bull turn from a monster to a friend? Why did that boy see through me, then violate me? Why did the dream feel so personal, so real?
Dreams are strange. But mine… mine seem like messages. Or warnings.
Was it about trust? About protection? About loss of control?
I don't know.
But I do know one thing: that dream left me changed. A little more cautious. A little more thoughtful.
And when I looked at myself in the mirror that morning, I imagined how I'd look with short hair. He was wrong. I didn't look freer. I looked… like someone who had lost something sacred.
And maybe that's what scared me the most.