When light bends: Echoes Of you

Chapter 6 — The Way He Looked at Me

Zoe’s Diary

I knew I’d see him again.

Even as I turned off the lamp last night, I could feel it — that soft hum in the air, like something waiting just behind my eyelids. My heart was already half-asleep, beating slower, falling toward him before my mind could catch up.

When the dream began, it didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like memory.

There was light — not sunlight, but something softer, a silver wash that seemed to come from everywhere at once. I was standing somewhere I didn’t recognize: a long hallway with walls that shimmered faintly, like fog held together by breath. I could hear waves somewhere far away, the soft pulse of an unseen ocean. The air smelled like salt and rain and something warm — something alive.

Then I felt him.

Not a touch exactly, not at first. More like the sense of gravity shifting — like my body remembered his before my eyes could find him. And then he was there, stepping out of the silver light.

He wasn’t blurry anymore. Not just a shape, not just warmth. His face came into focus slowly, like the world was drawing him in pencil and deciding to ink the lines.

Gray-blue eyes.

That’s the first thing I always noticed. Not just the color — the way they looked at me. Focused, steady, almost tender, like he’d been searching too long and couldn’t believe I was finally real.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I wanted to say his name, but I didn’t know it yet.

He smiled, faintly. “You found me,” he said. His voice was low, textured — the kind that hums through your bones rather than your ears.

My throat tightened. “Who are you?” I managed.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me. “You already know.”

That sentence sent a chill down my spine — not fear, but recognition. Like when you hear the first few notes of a song you haven’t heard in years and somehow remember every word.

“I don’t,” I whispered.

His smile deepened, soft but sad. “You will.”

We were close now. I could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the curve of his mouth. His skin looked warm, but not human-warm — it glowed faintly, as though light lived just beneath the surface.

I wanted to reach for him. Every nerve in my body wanted it. But something in me hesitated, afraid that touching him would make him disappear.

He must’ve sensed that because he stepped forward first, slow, deliberate. I didn’t move. When he reached up and brushed his fingers against my cheek, I felt it — the same impossible warmth, the weight of his hand, the thrum of something just beneath his skin.

This time, It wasn’t like electricity. It was quieter, deeper — the way air feels right before a storm breaks.

My eyes blurred. I think I said his name without realizing it — not the name from later, not yet, just a sound my heart made out of instinct.

His thumb traced the corner of my jaw. “You keep trying to wake up,” he said softly.

“I don’t mean to.”

He leaned closer, close enough that I could feel his breath, and whispered, “Then don’t.”

Everything in me obeyed.

For a moment, there was no hallway, no sound, no air — just that strange space where two people meet between thought and touch.

The silence between us heavy, electric.

My chest constricted, air leaving my lungs in a rush. I wanted to argue, to push him away, but I felt weak when his hand rose, brushing against my cheek.

The touch was feather-light, but it burned.

My lips parted, my eyes flicking to his mouth without permission.

He noticed. A smile flickered across his face for a moment, it seemed he might pull away again, retreat into no where

But then he cupped the back of my neck and kissed me.

The world or should I say my dream tilted. My knees went weak, my hands betrayed me fisting in his shirt as his mouth claimed mine with a hunger that had been simmering for years. His lips were firm, demanding, but when i gasped, he gentled, coaxing instead of conquering.

Couldn't control my body any more as i pressed against his, heat sparking everywhere they touched. The kiss deepened, rougher now, the taste of him intoxicating.

He broke away only long enough to murmur against my lips, “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

My answer was breathless but certain. “Don’t you dare.”

He laughed.

I remember closing my eyes because it felt too much, too awkward, like what did I just say.

When I opened them again, we were standing somewhere else entirely — on a beach I’d never seen before. Moonlight pooled across the water, the sand cold under my bare feet. He stood beside me, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine.

“I don’t understand any of this,” I said, watching the horizon ripple.

“You’re not supposed to,” he murmured. “Just remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Us.”

The way he said it — us — sent a tremor through me.

I looked at him fully then, really looked. And that’s when it hit me: I wasn’t just seeing a face. I was remembering one. Every detail felt like something I’d once known — the angle of his jaw, the small scar near his eyebrow, the way his mouth curved when he was trying not to smile.

It terrified me. Because how do you miss someone you’ve never met?

He reached down and took my hand. His fingers were long, warm, sure. The moment our palms touched, the world around us seemed to steady. The ocean quieted, the air thickened with light.

“You always find me,” he said, as though it were a promise. “Even when you forget.”

I wanted to ask what that meant — forget what? forget when? — but the words caught in my throat.

Instead, I just stared at our joined hands. The rhythm of my pulse matched his. Or maybe it was the other way around.

A soft wind lifted my hair. Somewhere behind us, thunder rumbled far off — not threatening, just present.

“Will I see you again?” I asked.

He looked up at the sky, then back at me. “You already do.”

When he said it, his voice cracked slightly, like it hurt him to say the truth out loud.

The air around us shimmered, and I felt it again — that pull, the sense that I was being lifted out of the dream, like the world was letting go.

“No,” I whispered. “Not yet. Please.”

He reached for me, fingers brushing my wrist. “Zoe—”

That was the first time he said my name.

I gasped. The sound of it — his voice saying my name — vibrated through me like a chord struck deep in my chest.

Then I woke up.

It was still dark. My dorm window was cracked open, and the night breeze pushed the curtain gently inward. I lay there, heart racing, skin still warm where he’d touched me in the dream.

For a few seconds, I couldn’t move. It felt like my body was still somewhere else — that maybe part of me hadn’t fully come back.

When I finally sat up, I realized I was crying. Not sobbing — just quiet tears, the kind that don’t ask for attention.

I reached for my notebook. My hands were shaking so badly that the first few words came out jagged:

His eyes. Gray-blue. Like the sky right before it rains.

Then another line: He said my name.

I stared at the ink as it bled faintly into the page. My breath came shallow, my pulse quick and uneven.

It’s strange — I’ve had dreams before that felt emotional, even vivid. But this was different. It wasn’t about desire or longing. It was about recognition. Like I’d been walking around missing someone I didn’t even know existed until last night.

I tried to rationalize it. Psychology 101: dreams as metaphors, subconscious imagery, brain sorting through feelings. But logic doesn’t explain the way my wrist still tingled where he touched me.

Or the faint sound that echoed in my ears when I closed my eyes again — his voice, low and certain: You always find me.

It’s morning now. Ava’s still asleep, breathing softly across the room. The sunlight hasn’t reached her side yet. Everything’s quiet except the ticking of the cheap clock we bought from the campus store.

I keep writing because I’m afraid if I stop, he’ll fade.

I don’t even know if I believe in soulmates or signs or any of that stuff, but right now, the world feels split in two — the one where I’m supposed to live, and the one where he’s waiting.

Maybe that’s what dreams really are — the overlap, the moment both worlds forget which one’s real.

I’m scared to sleep again tonight. Not because of him — never because of him — but because I don’t know what will happen if the dream goes any deeper.

Still, I know I will.

I always do.