FATED AT 2AM

A Soul I've Lost and Found

The moon was just... hanging there. Fat. Too close. Like it got stuck behind the fog and gave up. Luna’s room? Black. Only thing moving was the AC, humming this sad little song and spitting cold air on her face.

She finally passed out. Dead to the world.

Phone’s on the pillow. Face down. Still warm. She’d been scrolling Elio’s life for hours—his perfect, bullshit, filtered life. Battery’s flashing red. Like it’s dying on purpose.

The quiet was thick. Heavy on her chest. Like the night sat down on her blanket.

Then—she wasn’t in her room.

She’s on glass now. Black glass. Floating. Nothing under it. No city. No floor. Just... sky. This massive purple mess, lavender clouds rolling slow. Smells like lightning. And dirt. And something old. Like a temple no one prays in anymore.

And him.

Elio. Few feet away. Wool coat. White shirt. Hair getting messed up by wind that doesn’t even make noise. He turns.

It punches her. Right in the chest. Not a metaphor. Actual punch.

This isn’t Phone-Screen Elio. This one’s real. Here. Too real.

But his face. God. His face is just... gone. Smudged. Like someone wiped it with a wet thumb. She stares. Blinks. Nothing. Brain can’t make it stick. Like trying to remember a word in a dream.

She’s probably the same to him. A blur. A ghost.

Doesn’t matter. Their eyes find each other anyway. And it’s like—yeah. We’ve done this before. A hundred times. A thousand.

“You’re finally here,” he says. Not talking. It’s music. The kind you knew when you were five but forgot the name of.

Luna tries to say something. Throat locks up. She reaches out. Hand’s shaking so bad she might shatter. Scared. Hungry. Both.

There’s an ocean between them. Should be.

Isn’t.

Fingers touch.

And holy s**t.

Heat. White. Lightning straight to her bones. The wall between asleep and awake? Cracks. Then it’s gone.

—

London. Other side of the world.

Elio sits up so fast he almost falls out of bed. Silk sheets, whole mess. Can’t breathe. Heart’s going crazy, like it wants out. Skin cold, sweaty.

He can still feel her. Her hand. And he smells it—jasmine. Salt water. In his bedroom. In February. Makes no sense.

He looks around. Fancy Italian furniture. Awards on the wall. City lights. All of it looks fake now. Cardboard. A set.

Only she was real. That blurry girl. No name. No face. Starlight eyes. And something in him is yelling mine mine mine.

“This is impossible,” he says out loud. To nobody. Runs a hand through his hair. It’s shaking. He needs logic. Needs a reason. This is chaos and he hates chaos.

Phone. 4:00 AM. Notes app. Types fast, before it fades:

Saw her again. Not a fan not a headline not a pic. A missing piece. Smells like ocean. Looks like a prayer. If this is crazy I don’t wanna be normal. I know her. I don’t know her. How? How does that work?

Stares at it. Wants to post it. Wants to throw it into the internet and hope she catches it. But he’s Elio. They dissect every word. He lives in a glass box. Can’t let them see him bleeding.

Balcony. Rain stopped. Streets are black mirrors. He looks east. Where the sun’s gonna be.

And he needs to go. Now. Book a flight. Find the place that smells like jasmine. Like a house he’s never lived in but somehow remembers

Luna moves in her sleep. Smiles. Small. Sad. Hears him anyway. Deep. Rough. Like it’s true because he said it:

I will find you. Doesn’t matter how many oceans.

Sun’s coming up. Sky turns the same purple-gold from her dream. That mirage? It left a burn mark. Small. But embers start fires.

Luna wakes up. Tears. Doesn’t know why. Grabs her phone.

Notification. Elio. Story.

Taps it. Heart stops.

Black screen. One line. White text:

Do dreams ever feel more real than your life?

Her hand slams over her mouth. A little gasp. Like the air got knocked out.

She’s not crazy.

He felt it too. Same time. Same second.

Something’s building between them. You can’t see it, but it’s there. Dream by dream. Beat by beat.

And while the world starts yelling and moving and living—two people are just sitting there. Quiet. In the wreckage of something huge.

Changed.