Prologue - Vincent

I wasn't even supposed to be here. Alone, I mean.

The plan was to meet this guy, Vincent. Met him on a dating app. His pictures were fine—nothing too memorable. And his bio? Something about loving art. I don't know, maybe I thought it'd be cool to connect over that. Pero, let's be real, I was mostly interested because of his name.

Vincent. Like my favorite artist.

Maybe I was hoping for some grand, meaningful conversation. Maybe I just wanted someone to see me, understand me, without me having to explain. But no. An hour before we were supposed to meet at the museum, I got the text.

"Sorry, something came up. Next time?"

I should've just gone home. Pero since I was already here, why not enjoy the exhibit alone, right? Hindi naman ganun ka-interesting yung date, so... why not make the most out of it?

I sighed, stepping closer to the Sunflowers. The color was... intense. Like light, but also heavy. Hopeful, pero fleeting. Yellow had always been my thing—chasing it, always trying to hold onto the light, even though it always slips away when I think I have it.

"Yellow's his most painful color," someone said, right beside me.

I blinked. A guy. A little taller than me, wearing a plain black hoodie and ripped jeans. Nothing flashy. Pero, there was something about him. He wasn't just looking at the painting; he was seeing it.

"Sorry?" I asked, confused.

He nodded at the canvas, his voice steady, like he knew exactly what he was talking about. "Van Gogh's yellow. It's not just happiness. It's hope, pero... pain too. Parang he was trying to hold onto something, pero it was always slipping through his fingers."

I stared at him. He wasn't just throwing around random art phrases. He actually got it.

I swallowed, turning back to the painting. "Madness, too, right? For him?"

He looked at me, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Exactly. It was his light, but it consumed him."

Something about the way he said it made me think of my own struggles—how light can sometimes feel like a burden. Parang you want to chase it, pero instead, it pulls you down.

I said slowly. "Like... chasing the light can make you feel more lost than when you're in the dark."

He raised an eyebrow, a little surprised. "And parang the more you reach for it, the more it slips away?"

I looked at him then, a little shocked. For once, someone was saying something that wasn't just small talk. Like he was actually feeling this too.

"Wow ha. Have you felt that?" I asked, voice quieter now, like the question carried more than I meant.

He turned to me, and there was this look in his eyes. Something deep, something real. "Yeah," he said simply.

For a second, there was just silence. But it wasn't uncomfortable. We were just... standing there, taking in the chaos of Van Gogh's stars and swirls. Starry Night felt less chaotic now. It was... comforting.

"So, what about you?" I asked, breaking the silence. "Why Van Gogh? Most people just admire him 'cause he's this tortured genius..."

He was quiet for a second, studying the painting, like he was choosing his words. "I think... people are drawn to him because he wasn't afraid to show the mess. Most people try to hide it. But not him."

I nodded slowly, not sure how to put it into words. "Yeah... I think that's why I get it too. 'Yung hindi mo na alam kung saan mag-umpisa pero... you still try to make something beautiful out of it."

He glanced at me then, like he really saw me for the first time. "You're like him, then."

I froze. "What?"

"You're like Van Gogh," he said. "Chasing the light, but knowing it's hard to hold onto. Pero you still try."

I couldn't help but smile at that. What is this guy, I thought. How is he so... on point? Pero at the same time, parang hindi na ako magtataka. It was like he got it.

"Wow, free assessment ba to?" I said softly, trying to brush it off. But then, he's right. So, I nodded. "But yeah. Pero sometimes I wonder, when the light is gone then, what's left?"

He didn't answer at first. Instead, he just looked at me, like he was taking all of it in. Then he nodded, eyes soft. "There's always something left."

And for the first time today, I didn't feel like I was chasing something that didn't exist. I wasn't just another face in the crowd. I felt seen.

"I'm Seraphina," I said, suddenly aware of how weird this whole thing was. "By the way."

He smiled. A real one this time. "I'm Vincent."

I blinked. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. "Like Van Gogh."

I didn't know whether to laugh or be seriously freaked out. "I was supposed to meet a Vincent today, you know. But he bailed."

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, looks like you're meeting this Vincent now."

I shook my head, trying not to smile. It felt so weird and yet... it felt right. "Well, this is awkward."

He chuckled, and for a moment, it didn't feel like we were strangers anymore. It felt... easy. Like we could both just stand there, surrounded by art, and understand.

I was so caught up in the conversation, that everything around me seemed to fade. I wasn't just standing in front of a painting anymore. I wasn't just Seraphina, with all my questions about light and darkness. I felt... understood. Maybe for the first time in a long time.

But then, it was like everything clicked back into place too suddenly. It was like I was waking up from some dream I couldn't remember, but the feeling still lingered.

I blinked. The museum, the painting, Vincent—all of it was gone. Suddenly, I was back in my room, lying on my bed. My laptop screen was still glowing faintly, the only light in the room. I sat up, my mind a little foggy. What the hell?

I glanced at my laptop, realizing it was still paused on that Van Gogh documentary I'd been watching. The closing credits were rolling.

Did I... fall asleep? Was it just a dream?

Confused, I rubbed my face and checked my phone. It buzzed with a notification from Bumble. My pulse quickened as I unlocked it.

A new match. Vincent.

My heart dropped.

There was no way this was happening. Was this some kind of joke? I stared at the profile picture. It was him. The guy I was just talking to. The Vincent from the museum, or maybe not.

I blinked, trying to clear the fuzz in my brain. Wait—maybe this is just my head messing with me. I've been obsessed with Van Gogh all week. My mind's been jumping from one thing to another, hyperfixating on him, on... everything.

I tapped on the message thread with shaky fingers. The message was simple:

"Hey, Seraphina. Looks like we finally matched."

I felt like the room was spinning.

Is this real? Or is this just a manic episode?

I could feel it, that familiar high creeping in—when everything felt... too much. Like I was chasing something, desperate for something to hold on to. Maybe I'm just projecting. It's like I do with Van Gogh. Maybe I'm just hyperfixated, not really seeing anything clearly.

I took a shaky breath and read his next message:

"By the way, I'm really into art too."

That was it. I couldn't stop myself from feeling this tug. But what if it's all in my head? What if it's just my mania talking?

I stared at the screen, my thoughts racing. What if I'm just chasing the next light, the next fix, the next distraction? Is this real, or am I just caught in some cycle?

My finger hovered over the keyboard. I need to calm down. I can't get caught up in this. I need to take a step back.

I checked the time on my phone and realized how late it was. I should sleep. But as I glanced back at the messages, my thumb hovered over the reply box, unsure of what to say.

Maybe it's okay to reach out. But then again, maybe it's not.

Another notification popped up:

"Vincent" is typing...

I froze. I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was happening now was either going to be my escape—or my downfall.