When Our Souls Remembered

It was their wedding night, a marriage decided for them—something arranged for the good of their people, for unity between two tribes, but she was afraid. The hut was quiet. Too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that felt peaceful or comforting—but the kind that pressed in on her ears until every small sound felt too loud, too sharp, too close. The fire crackled softly. The ocean moved somewhere beyond the woven walls. The wind slipped through the gaps like it was searching for a way in. It filled the space. It filled her until she couldn’t tell where the quiet ended and her thoughts began. She sat near the edge of the sleeping mat, her back too straight, her hands clenched tightly in her lap like if she held them still enough, everything else would stay in place too. The woven fibers beneath her fingers felt rough. Unfamiliar. Nothing here felt like hers. This wasn’t her home… The thought came quietly—but it stayed. She swallowed, her throat tight. She knew what this meant. She had been told again and again. What was expected. What this marriage was for. For unity. For peace. For something bigger than herself. She understood that. She did. But knowing something… and feeling it were not the same. Her gaze dropped to the mat again, focusing on it like it might keep her grounded. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Her chest tightened anyway. Then, footsteps came. She flinched. Her breath caught. Her whole body stilled without her meaning to.For a second, even the ocean seemed to quiet—like the world itself was waiting. The door shifted, and then he stepped inside. She froze. He wasn’t what she expected. She had imagined someone heavier. Someone louder. Someone who would walk in and take up the whole room. Someone she would have to adjust to immediately. But, instead he stepped in quietly. His movements steady, controlled—not hesitant, but not forceful either. Like he knew exactly where he stood. He paused just inside the doorway. Not long. Just enough. Like he was giving her a moment. To breathe. To not feel cornered. Then he moved further in and sat down a short distance away. Not too close.Not too far. The space between them felt… intentional. She didn’t look up right away. She couldn’t. But she felt it. His presence, Not overwhelming. Not suffocating. Just—there. And somehow that made it easier to breathe. The silence stretched. But it didn’t feel the same as before. He didn’t press in on her. He didn’t demand anything. Slowly, her shoulders loosened. Just a little. She glanced up. Just for a second. And that was enough. He looked calm. Not cold. Not distant. Not unreadable. Just… steady. Like he understood the weight of the moment even if he didn’t fully understand her. Like he wasn’t trying to control anything but also wasn’t afraid of it. Her gaze dropped again quickly, her heart picking up for reasons she didn’t want to think about. “I know this is new,” he said. His voice was quiet. Not sharp. Not commanding. He just… met her where she was. She blinked, surprised. He wasn’t looking at her like she was a burden. Or something he had to accept. “I don’t know you yet,” he continued, thoughtful, unhurried “But… we don’t have to know everything today.” Something in her chest shifted. Not all at once. Not completely. But enough. Enough for her fingers to loosen slightly. Enough for her breathing to deepen—just a little. He rested his hands on his knees, relaxed. Still not moving closer. Still not reaching. Still not asking anything from her. “We can learn,” he said. The words settled gently between them.Then, softer—“Together.” The word stayed. It didn’t feel heavy. Didn’t feel forced. It felt—safe. She didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until it slipped out of her. Slowly. Carefully. For the first time since she arrived—she didn’t feel trapped. She lifted her head just a little and nodded. It felt like something beginning. That night, they didn’t move closer. They didn’t speak much more. They didn’t need to. They just stayed there—two strangers—not forced together…but quietly choosing not to pull away. And somehow—that felt like enough. . . . . . I woke up blushing. For a second, I didn’t move. I just stared at the ceiling, my heart beating way too fast for someone who had just opened their eyes. “…what was that?” My voice came out quieter than I expected. I pressed my hand against my chest, like I could calm it down that way. But it didn’t slow. It wasn’t fear. That’s what confused me the most. It was something else. Something warm. Something that stayed. I sat up slowly, trying to hold onto the dream before it slipped away—but it didn’t. It stayed. The hut. The firelight. The ocean. Him. My face warmed again. “Why…?” I covered my face for a second, letting out a quiet groan “This is so weird.” I mean—seriously. I’ve never even had a boyfriend. Not even close. So why am I dreaming about—that. And it wasn’t even anything dramatic. That’s the weird part. He didn’t do anything. He just sat there. Spoke calmly. Looked at me like I mattered. My chest tightened. I dropped my hands, staring at the empty space beside me. It was just my bed. Just my room. A single twin size bed. A messy comforter, scattered pillows. Just—me. Still single. Still alone. It’s not that I am upset I don’t have a boyfriend or anyone its just disappointing to dream something so intimate then, wake up with reality that I am a 25 single and live in my parents’ house. I let out a small breath, half laughing at myself. Of course it was just a dream. What else would it be? I shook my head, running a hand through my hair like I could physically get rid of the feeling. “It doesn’t mean anything,” I said it out loud this time. Like if I heard it, I’d believe it more. And I did. Mostly… I got out of bed, stretching a little, already trying to move on because it was just a dream. It had to be. Still…I glanced at the space beside me again. Just once.And for a second—a really quiet, almost embarrassing second I wished someone had actually been there. I quickly looked away. “Yeah, okay. We’re not doing that.” I grabbed my things, already moving, already distracting myself because it was easier. Easier than thinking about why it felt so real. Easier than asking why it didn’t feel like imagination at all.