Chapter 18 – Dreams Getting Clearer
1488 Words
(Dream Scene)
The night after I saw him again, I couldn’t fall asleep right away.
Every time I closed my eyes, his voice echoed in the space between thought and breath.
You found me again.
The way he’d said “again” — like it wasn’t a casual word, but a door quietly opening — wouldn’t leave me alone.
The rain outside my window hadn’t stopped since evening. The rhythm was steady, almost hypnotic. I lay there listening, letting it blur the edges of the world. Ava’s soft snoring came from across the room, a reminder that the rest of the universe had managed to drift off just fine.
But my mind wouldn’t quiet. It pulsed with fragments — his smile, the tilt of his head, the exact cadence of his voice when he’d said my name in the dream.
When sleep finally came, it didn’t feel like falling. It felt like slipping.
---
The world around me was silver and blue.
I stood barefoot on a marble floor, cold beneath my toes. The air shimmered faintly, like everything had been brushed with moonlight. I didn’t recognize where I was at first — it was too vivid to be imagination, too fragile to be real.
The place felt familiar, though. Not because I’d seen it before, but because my body seemed to remember it — the way your muscles remember the steps of a dance even after years.
A corridor stretched ahead, long and quiet. The walls were white stone veined with gray, and the sound of distant waves echoed faintly, as if the sea was breathing somewhere close by.
My heart thudded. I started walking.
Each step echoed softly. The corridor opened into a balcony, framed by gauzy curtains fluttering in the wind. Beyond it — a night sky so deep and endless it made my chest ache.
And there he was.
Leaning against the railing, back half-turned to me, wearing the same navy hoodie from the gym. His hair caught the light in silver strands. He wasn’t doing anything — just standing there, looking out at the horizon like he’d been waiting.
My breath caught.
“Adrian?” I whispered.
He turned — slow, deliberate — and when his eyes found mine, the air itself seemed to hum.
“Zoe,” he said softly. His voice sounded clearer than ever — not dreamlike this time, but solid, real. “You found me.”
The words rippled through me, threading into every nerve.
“I…” My voice faltered. “I didn’t mean to.”
He smiled faintly. “You always say that.”
The air thickened around us, charged like before a storm. I took a step closer, my pulse quickening.
“What is this place?”
He looked around, thoughtful. “It’s not a place, really. More like a memory that keeps choosing you.”
“That keeps choosing me?” I repeated, half disbelieving.
He nodded, the ghost of amusement in his eyes. “You’ve been here before.”
I opened my mouth to deny it — to insist this was just another dream — but then the wind shifted, carrying the scent of salt and rain, and something inside me remembered.
The balcony. The sea. The sound of his voice calling me by name.
A shiver ran through me. “Why does it feel so real?”
“Because it is,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.
I took another step toward him. “But you’re not—”
“Real?” he finished, one brow lifting.
I hesitated.
He smiled again, softer this time. “Maybe that’s not the right question.”
His gaze held mine — steady, knowing. The longer I looked, the more I felt the pull, like gravity bending around something I couldn’t see.
“Then what is the right question?” I asked.
He reached out, brushing his fingertips lightly against my wrist. The touch was electric — not cold, not warm, just… alive.
“Why you keep finding me,” he murmured.
I swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
“You do,” he said, voice low, almost coaxing. “You just don’t want to remember.”
The wind picked up, swirling strands of hair across my face. He reached up and tucked one behind my ear, the gesture tender enough to undo me.
“Tell me,” I whispered.
He looked at me like he was weighing the world. “You’re not ready yet.”
“Then why are you here?”
His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, tracing slow circles that made my breath stutter. “Because you called me.”
My heart jolted. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” he said gently. “Every time you think of me. Every time you wonder why my face feels like déjà vu. That’s what calling feels like.”
The world tilted slightly, the air warping around us like heat haze. I swayed, and he caught me effortlessly, one arm steadying me.
Up close, I could see the faint scar along his jaw, the way his eyes weren’t just Grey blue but flecked with something lighter — gold maybe, or amber — and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
“This isn’t real,” I said weakly. “It can’t be.”
“Then why do you look at me like it is?” he whispered.
The question silenced everything else.
He was too close now — his breath mingling with mine, his hand still resting against my arm. The world felt suspended, like we existed in the split second between lightning and thunder.
“Because…” I started, but the words dissolved.
“Because?” he prompted, voice barely a murmur.
“Because I know you,” I said finally, the truth breaking out of me.
Something flickered across his face — relief, maybe, or longing.
“I know,” he said. “And that’s why this keeps happening.”
He leaned in then, not quite touching, but close enough that the air between us sparked. My pulse was a frantic drumbeat.
“Every time you dream,” he said softly, “you get a little closer to remembering.”
“Remembering what?”
His smile was faint, sad. “Us.”
Before I could respond, the balcony light dimmed, the horizon blurring into mist. The waves below rose and fell in rhythm with my heartbeat.
“Don’t go,” I said, though I wasn’t sure who I was saying it to — him or the dream itself.
He reached out, fingertips brushing against mine. “I’ll see you again.”
And then the world shattered into light.
---
I woke with a start.
My breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. The room was dark except for the faint glow of my phone screen on the nightstand.
Ava was still asleep. Rain still tapped softly against the window.
But my heart — it was racing like I’d just run a mile.
For a moment, I didn’t move. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what I’d just felt.
Not seen — felt.
The smell of salt still lingered faintly in my nose, impossible but there. The sound of waves echoed in my ears. My wrist tingled where his fingers had touched me.
I sat up slowly, pressing my palm against my chest. My heartbeat felt too loud in the quiet room.
“Remembering us,” he’d said.
The words looped through my mind, refusing to fade.
I grabbed my notebook from the desk and flipped it open, pages fluttering in the dark. The last thing I’d written stared back at me:
He said “again.” It felt like more.
I picked up my pen and began to write, hands shaking slightly.
Dream again.
Balcony.
Moonlight.
He said I called him.
Said I keep finding him.
Said I’m remembering “us.”
What does that mean?
The pen hovered over the page for a long moment.
Then, almost without thinking, I added one more line:
I don’t know if I’m losing my mind or finding it.
The rain outside had softened to a drizzle, the world settling back into silence.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed — that the dream wasn’t just a dream anymore.
That somehow, somewhere, Adrian existed beyond it.
And if what he said was true — if I really was remembering — then I wasn’t sure whether to be terrified… or thrilled.
I lay back down, notebook still open beside me, the ink not yet dry.
When sleep finally came again, it was lighter, fragmented — but I could still hear his voice, threaded through the dark.
You found me.
And for the first time, I whispered back into the quiet, “Then don’t let me lose you again.”
- Writer
