chapter 7
201 Words
Our first conversation in the waking world was nothing and everything. We didn't talk about the weather or our jobs. We spoke in a sort of shorthand, a language we had both learned in the dream.
"The air feels different," I said, a statement that was both simple and profound.
"It's the color," Wanga replied, his voice a low, steady sound that felt like home. "It's been bleeding in for weeks."
We sat for hours, a single cup of tea growing vey cold and sound in between us, marveling at the simple, unbelievable fact of our shared reality. We told each other about the signs we had seen. The red bud on my succulent, the sudden vibrancy of a sunset he had noticed. It was a dance of confirmation, each story a piece of a puzzle we were only now beginning to put together. We weren't crazy; we were just connected in a way no one else could understand. We were anchors for each other, pulling our gray, chaotic realities into a new, single, colorful world. We weren't just two people who had found each other; we were two halves of a whole, finally came to made manifest.
- Writer
