When light bends: Echoes Of you

Chapter 2 - The dream aftermath

The memory of him — blurred in parts, sharp in others — lingered like a scent you can’t wash off. I remembered the weight of him beside me, the way my skin had tingled where I thought his hand had brushed mine, the way his warmth seemed to seep into me without permission, as though it belonged there. It did belong there. The thought slipped into my mind unbidden, but it felt right, like a truth I had always known but only just acknowledged.

I traced the outline of my arm on the sheets, half-expecting him to be there again, but the space was empty. And yet the emptiness didn’t feel empty. It held him. It held what I couldn’t name: recognition, desire, the faint echo of a presence I shouldn’t have known but did anyway. He was here, I thought, he was real. The certainty of it settled deep within me, a quiet, unshakable truth.

I wanted to speak his name, but it had slipped away with the last echoes of the dream. I lay there, listening to my own breath, to the faint creak of the floorboards beyond the room, to the silence that seemed to pulse around me. Every muscle in my body felt alive, aware, attuned to a memory that wasn’t quite mine. Or maybe it was. Maybe this was the first time I had truly felt something real, something that mattered.

The sun rose higher, painting the walls in gold and shadow. My chest ached pleasantly with the memory of warmth. I closed my eyes again and let the sensation flood over me. I pictured him just beyond the edge of my sight, turning to look at me, smiling softly, his hand brushing against mine in a gesture I would never forget. I will find you again, I whispered silently, a promise to myself, to him, to whatever force had brought us together in that dream. And with that thought, I finally allowed myself to rise, carrying the memory of him with me into the waking world

I reached for my notebook, the only thing I trusted to hold the wild swirl of sensation. My hand trembled slightly as I wrote, the words spilling onto the page without pause:

He was here. Or I was there. Or both. I can still feel him. I can still feel everything.

I paused, pressed my forehead to the notebook, and let out a shuddering breath. I wanted to laugh, cry, scream — all at once. I wanted to wake the world up and tell it what had happened, but I couldn’t. It belonged only to me. Only to the quiet, tender space where dream and memory collided.

It wasn’t just the physicality — though my body remembered it all too well. It was the quiet intimacy of it. The feeling of being held without effort, of being known in ways words could never reach. My skin tingled, my stomach fluttered, my chest expanded and contracted as though it were breathing for two. And somewhere in the depth of that feeling was a part of me that realized: I had never been touched like this before. Not by anyone. Not in reality, not in dreams. Not anywhere that counted.

The minutes stretched, and I stayed there, letting the memory wash over me, tracing the lines of the dream in my mind like a map I didn’t want to lose. I remembered the warmth of his chest against mine, the way my hair had fallen across his shoulder, the way the air had seemed to thrum with quiet anticipation, as if the room itself held its breath.

I wanted to tell him all the things I couldn’t say — about the ache I didn’t understand, about the way my body remembered every imagined touch, about the way my heart had recognized him before my mind could even name him. I wanted to hold onto that. I wanted to stay in that half-world where his presence was mine to claim, even if it existed only in the tender, whispering edges of a dream.

I rolled onto my side, hugging my knees to my chest, letting the sheets fall loosely around me. My skin felt electric, as if the dream had left its fingerprints on my nerves. I could still feel him in every flicker of sensation: the brush of a finger, the warmth of a shoulder, the subtle weight of a body that had been imagined yet felt achingly real.

Finally, I reached for my journal again, writing furiously, as though putting words to paper could anchor him, make him tangible, or at least let me remember him fully before the day erased the edges of the dream.

He is more than a dream. I can’t explain it. I can’t make sense of it. But I will never forget how he felt. How he is — somewhere inside me now, even if he never exists outside this room, this moment, this memory.

I pressed the pen down and exhaled, feeling hollow and full at the same time. My heartbeat was steadying, but the memory lingered, soft and persistent. I could close my eyes and see him again. I could feel the warmth, the closeness, the quiet that spoke louder than words ever could.

The room smelled faintly of morning air and the remnants of my imagined warmth. I shivered slightly, wrapping the sheets tighter around me. I wanted to stay here forever — in this space between dreaming and waking, between memory and imagination — where it felt like he was real, and I could touch him without consequence.

Eventually, I forced myself to rise. My body felt heavy, aware, and achingly alive. I moved to the window, letting the early light pour over me, washing away some of the haze but leaving the imprint of him on my skin and in my chest. I could still feel his heartbeat in mine. I could still hear the faint echo of his voice.

I dressed slowly, deliberately, savoring the lingering traces of him. Every movement reminded me of the warmth, the closeness, the quiet intensity of that dream. And I knew, without a doubt, that I would never stop thinking of him, even if I never saw him again in the waking world.

I sat at my desk and opened my notebook again, writing the first words that came to mind, the only ones that could contain even a fraction of what I had felt:

He was here. And even though I woke, even though the world is bright and real, I can still feel him. I can still feel everything.

I paused and looked out the window. The day had begun, ordinary and unaware of what I had just lived. I wanted to call Ava, tell her everything, but the words felt too private, too sacred. This was mine alone — the warmth, the ache, the quiet recognition that some part of him had crossed into me.

I sat back, pen in hand, letting the silence stretch between the lines of my writing. And for the first time, I didn’t try to force sense or reason. I let it wash over me, let it linger, let it be what it was: a moment that had changed me, a presence that had left me wanting, and a memory that felt more alive than anything in the waking world.

And even as I closed the notebook, I felt him again — a ghost, a warmth, a heartbeat echoing inside me. I shivered, smiled, and whispered under my breath:

I will find you again.