The Night We Met Before.

I have been dreaming about the same man for three years, four months, and eleven days. I know because I started writing it down. Not every night. At first it was once a month. Then once a week. Now it's almost every night, and I wake up exhausted like I actually lived another life while I was sleeping. Tonight, it's the train station again. It never exists in Lagos. The architecture is old, European, with a huge glass ceiling and a clock that has no hands. Rain is falling on the glass, but inside, where we are, it's dry and warm. He's there. He's always there. Brown skin, tall, maybe 6'1. Dark wavy hair that looks like he runs his hands through it too much. He's wearing a black shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and he's holding that same brown leather notebook. The one with the frayed corner. He sees me and his whole body changes. Like he's been holding his breath for a hundred years and can finally breathe. "You took so long," he says. His voice is low, hoarse, familiar in a way that makes my chest hurt. "I don't know you," I say. It's what I always say. He smiles, sad. "You do." He steps closer. I can smell rain and coffee and something like cedarwood. He reaches out — And I wake up. --- I sat up in bed at 4:17 AM, gasping. My one-room apartment in Yaba was dark, except for the blue light of my laptop that I never shut down. My fan was whirring. Danfo horns were already starting outside, even at this hour. Sweat was sticking my sleep shirt to my back. 4:17 AM. It's always 4:17 AM when I wake from him. I'm Amara Cole. 26. Freelance writer. That means I'm broke, I'm caffeinated, and I write articles titled "10 Signs He's Your Destiny" for a lifestyle blog called *City Girl Lagos* that pays me 15k per article two weeks late. The irony is not lost on me. I don't believe in destiny. I believe in Google Docs, NEPA taking light, and my landlord knocking. But I believe in this man. Or at least, my subconscious does. I grabbed the notebook beside my bed — not brown leather, a cheap black one from Shoprite — and scribbled: *Train station again. He said 'You took so long.' He knew my name this time? No, he didn't say it. I felt like he knew it.* My phone buzzed. [Remi: Girl, your flight is 7:30 AM. Don't miss it or your editor will kill you and I will help her hide the body.] Remi is my best friend since Unilag. She thinks my dream man is a sign I need to touch grass and get a real boyfriend. I texted back: [I'm awake. The dream again.] She replied in 2 seconds: [OF COURSE THE DREAM AGAIN. Amara, you need deliverance. Or at least a date.] I groaned and dragged myself to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror — brown skin, tired brown eyes, my natural curls mashed to one side from sleep. Beautiful, my mother says. Stressed, my mirror says. I have a flight to Abuja in three hours to interview a boring tech founder for a boring article about "How I Built My Startup In Lagos." Another freelancer flaked, and my editor, Mrs. B, said if I miss this, she's giving all my gigs to someone who writes AI articles for 5k. So I can't miss this flight. Even if I haven't slept properly in three years. I splashed water on my face and said out loud to my reflection, "He is not real. You are a 26-year-old woman hallucinating a boyfriend because you watch too much K-drama. Get it together." --- Murtala Muhammed Airport at 6:45 AM is chaos organized by shouting. I was in the middle of it — carry-on half-open, hair in a hurried puff, wearing my only good blazer over a faded T-shirt, running in sneakers that were coming apart. "Madam, gate closing!" the check-in woman yelled at me without looking up from her phone. "I know, I'm here, I'm here!" I slid my ID across. She finally looked at me, then at my ticket. "14A. Window. Go." I ran. Past the perfume sellers, past the man selling Gala, past a crying baby. My bag banged against my knee. Gate D2 was beeping. Last call for Abuja. I made it onto the plane panting, hair falling out of my puff, apologizing to everyone I bumped. Row 14. I found it. 14A, window. My seat. 14B, the middle seat, was already taken. A man in a black shirt, looking out the window. I couldn't see his face, only the back of his head. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. I threw myself into 14A. "Sorry, sorry," I mumbled, shoving my bag under the seat in front of me, struggling with my seatbelt. My hands were shaking from running and no sleep. I finally clicked it and exhaled. "We made it." And then I heard it. "You took so long." The entire plane noise — the crying baby, the announcements, the engine — disappeared. It was his voice. The exact same voice. The same low, quiet, slightly tired timbre that had said those exact three words to me in a dream three hours ago. My hands went cold. Slowly, so slowly, I turned my head to the right. And the world stopped existing. It was him. It was not a man who looked like him. It was him. The same sharp jawline I had tried not to memorize. The same deep-set brown eyes, the same slight frown between his eyebrows like he was always thinking about something sad. The same mouth. The man I had been dreaming about for three years was sitting in seat 14B, holding a brown leather notebook with a frayed corner on his lap. His eyes were already on me. And he was as white as a ghost. He stared at me like he was seeing someone rise from the dead. His lips parted. His hand, holding that notebook, tightened so hard his knuckles turned white. "Amara?" he whispered. My heart stopped. No one on this plane knew my name. My ticket was in my bag. I hadn't said it. The flight manifest doesn't shout it. "How —" My voice came out as a croak. "How do you know my name?" His eyes searched my face frantically — my eyes, my mouth, my hair — like he was confirming I was real. "Oh my God," he said, more to himself than to me. "It is you." The flight attendant's voice came on: "Cabin crew, prepare for takeoff." The plane lurched forward, taxiing. I gripped the armrest. I couldn't look away from him. I was terrified, but not the kind of terrified where you want to run. The kind where you finally found something you lost a long time ago and you're scared if you blink it will disappear. "You —" I swallowed. "Do I know you? Have we met?" He gave a short, disbelieving laugh, but his eyes were wet. "Have we met? Amara, I have been looking for you for three years." Three years. My dream started three years ago. The plane lifted. My stomach dropped. Lagos fell away beneath us. And this man, this impossible man from my impossible dreams, leaned across the tiny armrest between us, so close I could smell that same cedarwood and coffee from the dream, and whispered the sentence that shattered every logical thing I thought I knew about my life: "You've been dreaming about me too, haven't you?"