She knew him.

She knew him?

Of course she knew him. Everyone knew him. He was famous.

But she knew him. The familiarity wasn’t just because he was one of the most admired, celebrated, talented musicians to ever grace a public stage and had been for longer than she’d been taking up space on planet Earth. It was more than that. It was an intimate knowledge. As she stared at the picture on the screen, she was paralyzed. A crippling fear gripped her like a vice, holding her in place as she stared at the handsome, weathered face. Was it a fear for him? Or was she afraid of him?

What was it about this man that had her so freaked out? And why did it matter all of a su...?

…

Sasha Simons stared at the tv on the living room wall, mouth slack, eyes glazed. She was no longer seeing the man on the tv. She wasn’t seeing the tv or even the wall it had hung on just a microsecond before.

Her living room wall was gone and had been replaced by a wall of glass. Day had become night and rain had replaced the snow that had been falling all morning. The curved, floor-to-ceiling windows, were suddenly lit by white-hot light that spiderwebbed across the panoramic view. On cue, the skies opened. The deluge was deafening as it drowned out the rolling thunder. The shockwave of thunder rattled through the hills around her and vibrated the rivulets that ran down the outside of the glass.

…

She looked from the window to her surroundings. There was a drink in her hand.

…

She didn’t drink.

…

Sasha brought the glass toward her face and sniffed the dark amber liquid. The smell, reminiscent of rich tobacco and old, dark wood, while not unpleasant, made her cough. This made the contents of her cup slosh around and caused a few small drops to splash out and land on the webbing between her thumb and index finger. Without thinking about it, she licked the beads of whiskey from her hand and slammed the rest of what was in the glass in one graceful motion. Her throat burned and she coughed again. Another flash of lightening and…

…

The pretty reporter stood in the middle of the parking lot outside the arena as snow fell around her but did not dare to touch her. Sasha noticed the bodiless arm stage left that held a large, black umbrella high over the woman’s immaculately quaffed hair and flawless face.

“The show starts tomorrow at 7pm. Tickets are sold out but Miranda and Steve will be giving away a pair of front row tickets and VIP All Access passes on our morning show, Wake Up, Denver! Be sure to wake up early for your chance to win. This is Amber Johnson, reporting from the Pepsi Center in downtown Denver. Back to you in the warm studio, Jay.”

The screen split and a middle-aged, man with neat, salt and pepper hair, in a smart, blue suit tried to show Amber and Sasha how far he could stretch his lips across his face before a fissure opened up and revealed all of his teeth at once.

“I sure am glad I got my tickets, Amber. And I know I’ll be seeing you there.”

Amber, like her counterpart in the studio, had begun to explain just how glad she was she had gotten her tickets but Sasha no longer heard either of them.

I’ll be seeing you there

I’ll see you there

I see you…

…

The lights of the sprawling city below looked alive. Sasha leaned her cheek against the thick, cool glass, took a deep breath and exhaled. The window fogged and she quickly wrote three words: I see you

She felt a heavy arm encircle her waist

“Hi.”

His breath tickled her ear, sending a delicious shiver down her spine.

Without prompting, he took her glass and headed for the bar on the other side of the room.

“I’ve got a bottle on the table over there,” her head tilted in the direction of a handful of couches clustered around a large square table. A bottle, right at a the point that would start a half full/half empty debate with the right crowd, sat precariously close to the nearest edge.

Sasha could see his reflection in the glass as he about-faced and headed to the table. So handsome. So not her type. But this worked, this collaboration. The song was good, really good. She felt it in every fiber of her being.

“I think it’s going to be huge, babe!” He handed her glass back to her with a generous amount of booze now in it. “And the whole collaboration thing? We’re gonna hit them out of nowhere with this.” He poured two fingers into his own glass and set the bottle on the floor beside the window. “People are gonna lose their shit.” He reached around her and clinked his glass into hers. “I’m gonna make you famous, babe.” He chuckled and chugged half of his drink in one gulp. “Drink up! We’re gonna celebrate tonight!” He tapped his glass into hers again and downed its contents.

With his hand on her hip she tilted her head back and rested against his chest. “Or maybe I’ll make you famous.” Sasha put the glass to her lips, closed her eyes and drank, draining the entire glass in three large swallows, her breath caught in her lungs, unable to inhale or exhale. She held her eyes shut for another moment as she relished the heat of the liquor, the heat of his hand on her hip, the heat of his breath on her neck as leaned down and pressed his lips and hips tight to her body. The heat between her thighs. So much heat. “Let’s go,” she whispered and took his hand. She turned and walked with him up the stairs that led to the upper level and the bedrooms.

Sasha opened the French doors to the bedroom at the end of the hallway. She reached in to flip the light on and…

…

Dim light came through the curtains on the far side of Sasha’s bedroom. One word, migraine, she thought as she crawled into bed and pulled the covers over her head. How long had it been since she had had a migraine? Two years? Three? A long time by migraine sufferer’s standards. And this one promised to be a bad one if the hallucinations were any indication.

When was the last time she hallucinated before a migraine? Not since she was a kid. God, the hallucinations, though.

Just need to sleep. Need to stop over-thinking.

Need sleep. No over-thinking.

Sleep. No…

…

…”thinking about,” he asked. “You seem really far away.” He had lit them both a cigarette and she took the one he handed her.

Dragging deeply, the excitement of creation, of making something that people might actually love, something that might carry on had her head spinning. He had her head spinning. She exhaled in a rush and turned to her lover.

“It really is good, isn't it?”

He grabbed the edge of the sheet, flipped it off his legs as he swiveled and planted his feet on the floor in one graceful, fluid motion.

“Yes!” He jumped up, “I’m starving.” He stood, nearly perfect. The sheet fell back to the rumpled bed. “You?” He was a rock god in the making. “I think I’ve got some left-over Thai in the fridge.” He had turned to face her, a shit-eating-side-grin, one of the things he was already becoming known for, on his face; his left eyebrow cocked to a point. “Or, I could just eat you?”

And there was that naughty-boy charm she’d been hearing about. Sasha, used to having to be the aggressor in and out of the bedroom, felt an unfamiliar flush in her face.

“Oh! Wait!” His grin widened. The charm turned up to ten just made him that much sexier. “Did I make the bad girl of the pop world actually blush?” He leaned down, moving across the bed toward her, his fist pushing into the mattress. Gravity drew her close to him.

He smelled of cologne and sex and booze. He kissed the tip of her nose. “I’ll be right back.”

Sasha closed her eyes and let her body fall back on the bed as soon she heard his footsteps on the stairs. Exhaustion like she hadn’t felt in years hugged her body the moment it hit the oversized pillows stacked around her. The late night sessions in his recording studio all week had been one thing, but trying to keep up with the drinking and the now the sex? There are some the might still call her by the moniker she had earned when she had first gotten the attention of the people who mattered in this shit show that they called the music business, but she sure as hell hadn’t felt much like the bad girl of the pop world in longer than she cared to think about. They joked with each other about making the other famous but for her, it was more about being relevant again.

And what would that be like? It had been more than a year since she had made any meaningful public appearances. And three times that since the last tour had ended.

Her body relaxed and she tried to remember the exhilaration she would feel again, being on the stage. She slipped into sleep as the crowd chanted. Chanted her name.

Wait. No.

Not her. Not her name. His name. The crowd chanted his name. They had forgotten all about her. It was his name on their lips. It was him that they wanted.

Now she was in the crowd. Right in front. And he was standing over her on the stage. Larger than life. He was looking directly at her. As if she was the only one in the entire stadium. Just the two of them. Her below and him above, he looked at her and her only.

But the people around her didn’t seem to know she was even there. They began to push at her, crush her. Sasha couldn’t breath. The crowd moved in closing off her airways. She tried to struggle but her arms were pinned to her sides as the bodies pushed in tighter around her. She looked up and tried to find him. Tiny white dots floated and swam around her vision. Fear boiled over and she tried to scream.

Sasha’s eyes flew open and she opened her mouth wide to inhale the air that had been deprived of her in the dream-turned-nightmare that her insecurities had mustered out of her subconscious.

Nothing. No air.

A face floated above her. Where she had expected to see a warm, inviting, mischievous and just a bit sexy grin, instead, a cruel, twisted mocking grimace carved into a black hole of hate. And hands were around her throat.

Confused, Sasha brought her eyes to her attacker. They pounded with the beat of her heart until she thought they would explode. She tried to plead. Her mouth moved.

Why?

The thumping slowed and a blackness had begun to creep in around the edges of her vision.

She never heard her killer utter a word.

The darkness swallowed her. …

It was close to dawn before Sasha finally gave up on sleep. She turned the tv on as she passed it headed toward the kitchen and coffee.

Fifteen minutes later, Sasha was sitting at the kitchen bar, her second cup of barely-coffee flavored creamer and sugar held in one hand, her phone in the other. A cheerfully bright bleach blond in an equally bright pink and white skirt and jacket ensemble was standing in front of a map covered in large snowflakes.

“That’s going to do it for the local forecast.” She turned just as the cameras switched to a close up shot of a salt and pepper haired anchor, nearly indistinguishable from the gentleman that sat in the same chair for the evening news.

“Thank you, Gina.” The man said as he spoke into the camera in front of him. “A winter weather warning will be in effect starting at midnight tonight. Keep your tv tuned to Channel 11 overnight and Wake Up, Denver! starting at 5 am tomorrow morning for road conditions and any closures as this storm moves though the city. Miranda?”

A dark haired beauty with too much makeup sat up a bit straighter in her chair as the crew cut to the wide shot.

“Thank you, Gina. Steve.” She glanced down at the desktop, switched her view to her close up camera and segued into the the part that Sasha had been waiting for since she had clawed her way from the horrors of her dreams a few hours prior. The woman at the desk became a bit more animated.

“It’s almost as if the weather gods themselves have rolled into town for tonight’s sold out performance at the Pepsi Center.” The camera switched back to the wide shot of both anchors.

“And when we come back, Steve and I will be giving away two tickets to tonight’s historic event as we say goodby to a rock legend as he winds up his final performance right here in the place his fans say he got his real start.” She paused for just the right amount of time and continued, “I’m Miranda Stevenson.” She looked to her right.

“And I’m Steve Knight. This is Wake Up! Denver and we’ll be right back.”

Sasha picked up her phone. She had punched in the ten digits without seeing them. Her thumb hit the green send button and the phone began to ring. …

Thumping beats assaulted and seemed to change the rhythm of her heart as guitars screeched and screamed. The anxiety she felt in her nightmare returned as the crowd pressed around her. She pushed her shoulders and elbows out as she tried to make herself bigger. After a few seconds that felt like a few minutes, the crowd seemed to collectively exhale which allowed her room to move. The reprieve didn’t last as the man they had come to see made his way to her side of the stage and stopped in front of her. The crowd swelled and threatened to swallow her, to drown her, to choke her.

Sasha barely noticed as she made eye contact with him.

For just a moment, he faltered. It was just a split second. Sasha doubted anyone else had even noticed. But she had. And so had he.

…

The green room, which wasn’t actually green at all, was full of people, alcohol and food. Everywhere, people were talking, mouths full of food or drink or both. Sasha made her way to the bar to the left.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Hot breath on her neck. A warm hand on her waist.

She took a sip of the drink she had just been handed and leaned her head back against his chest. “Best performance of your career.” His grip on her waist tightened and he pulled her to him; his hips pressing to her, the erection instantaneous. She shivered as his lips brushed the back of her neck.

“I knew it was you. The moment I saw you.” He didn’t seem surprised. “I guess an explanation is warranted.” She turned in arms to face him.

“The explanation won’t be necessary. Up and coming rockstar records decades biggest with the on-her-way-to-obscurity pop star hours before she dies in a tragic fiery crash leaving the mountain recording studio.”

He looked her in the eyes. “Wow. You really do look amazing, Sasha. Like it never happened.” His eyes were glassy with drink and nostalgia. “Would it make a difference if I said I was sorry?”

“Tragedy sells. And playing the grieving friend and lover who was only trying to help me revive my career? Brilliant. Martyrdom really suits you. Don’t apologize for being shrewder than I gave you credit for.”

She took him by the hand, “Let’s go.” Sasha led him through the crowded room and out the door.

…

“The weekend weather should hit the three S’s. Shorts, sunglasses and sunscreen. Stay tuned for more on this warming trend at ten past the hour. Steve?” Gina turned to the anchor desk as the camera cut to a close up of a much more somber reporter this morning.

“In other news, tragedy has struck the rock and roll community as news rock legend Devon Smithfield was found dead just hours after his final performance her in Denver. He rose to fame with the song, I See You, recorded with pop icon Sasha Sin just ours before the crash that took her life. Preliminary reports from the police and the coroner’s office have indicated he may have committed suicide by hanging. We’ll update with more details as they come in. Miranda?”

Sasha hit the red button at the top of the remote and the screen on the wall went black.

The marriage had gone as well as anyone could have hoped considering the strange path we took to find each other but recently things had started to go awry. As a twenty six year old woman, I always found it surreal that I had even gotten married, never mind so young and to someone so different from myself. I’d met Lucas when I was at my lowest and like a bright shining knight, he swooped in and rescued me. I initially said no to the marriage proposal since he was a rich man and I didn’t want people to look at the marriage as if I were a gold digger but eventually I warmed to the idea.

The strangest thing is I had no issue with people knowing that when we met I was sitting at the side of the road ready to leave everything I was behind. I had no issue with people knowing I was a runner, things got tough so I ran.

But I ran toward Lucas rather than away, and it’s all I’d ever done since I met him. I loved him. But recently I had noticed he had become distant, or maybe that was me. Maybe that was me though.

It happened so suddenly. The fight. The screaming. The tears. The rest of my life, planned out so perfectly with this man all came tumbling down when I opened my mouth and told him about my doubts. He told me I was crazy, he told me I had no right to say he was anything other than loving and faithful. And that’s when it occurred to me.

“Otravā”

It was a word I didn’t, know. And yet I did. The voice was a woman’s. The language was Romanian. And the word was poison.

The poison was already in my hand, in his drink, in his mouth. I couldn’t watch as it happened. It sounded painful, his choking and gasping for air. He murmured my name and I couldn’t respond. I didn’t want to.

Could I have become the black widow? I froze, the term caught me off guard. It was familiar. It brought a smile to my face, not a kind and welcoming smile, no, a sinister and tight smile. A hidden intentions smile.

“My name is Vera.”

The voice was not my own, but it came from my mouth. Realisation sunk in, tethered me to the spot. I’d never believed in past lives, ghosts, the lot but Vera...the name made me think of the famous black widow.

Vera Renczi was her name. Could it be that I had lived as this cruel and cold woman in the past? Could it be that I was to become the modern day black widow.

I smiled again.

Had I always known? Perhaps there was a plan my madness set into motion.

He wandered through the camp, his boots kicking up fine, powdery dust that choked him. Ugly wooden barracks stood at attention on either side of him. His gaze locked on the strange creatures peeking out of the open entrances—pale, haunted faces; bony skeletons with sagging, papery skin; bulging joints and reedy limbs.

And the eyes...the eyes were the worst part. They stared at him: dull, hopeless, desperate, terrified, accusing.

He wanted to look away. He tried to turn his head, to escape the terrible gazes that pierced him with crushing guilt.

Guilt? Why guilt? He didn’t do anything to cause this; he didn’t even recognize this place.

He finally tore his gaze away and looked forward. A brick building stood directly before him, smoke pouring out in clouds of ashy finality. The distinct stench of burning corpses filled his nostrils, and he looked back at the living skeletons.

They were gone.

——

Adam jerked awake, terribly human screams echoing in his mind. He rubbed his face and rolled over, the scene from his recurring dream replaying in his mind. It was tattooed on his memory, taunting him with its lingering aroma of deja vu.

The familiar guilt stabbed at him, but he brushed it away and sat up. Like he had done every night for the past two years since the dream had started, he turned on his phone and started to browse the news until he was sleepy again.

He clicked on an article announcing that it was Holocaust Remembrance Day. A photo of a concentration camp popped up. Chills raced down his body as he stared at the scene in his dream, immortalized in the photo.

He clicked on the next photo and was suddenly staring into his own face in black and white. The caption read, “Rudolf Hoss, commandant of Auschwitz concentration and extermination camp.”

The phone fell from his numb fingers and the blood drained from his face.

The guilt returned, a boulder that dropped on his chest and crushed all the light from his soul.

His dream was actually a memory.

“What?” I panicked as soon as the words left his mouth. Daniel has always been around and I always thought it was just coincidence. “You crazy!” I said as I swiftly turned around wanting to leave as soon as I could. Danny grabbed my wrist “I’m not lying to you, I could never lie to you!” He lifted his hand to my face and gently caressed my cheek. He was trying to comfort me, but I was to far gone. My breathe was uneven and my vision was beginning to blur. “Rosie, baby!” his voice was cut off by the lingering darkness. I woke up in a soft plush bed. I was comfortable, but that was suddenly ruined by many red flags. Strange bed, strange room, strange shirt, strange noises coming from what I guess was a downstairs. I screamed and flailed my arms and legs hoping someone would hear me. Light footsteps trotted up the stairs. “Rosie it’s okay, your alright.” Daniel rushed in placing his hand on my shoulder rubbing soothing circles up and down my arm. “Did I really die?” I spoke gently almost a whisper. “No, at least I don’t think so. You look the same, you talk to same, and even the same name.” I smiled at least I wasn’t a zombie or vampire. The Salvatore brothers put me to shame already as it is. Daniels face went blank and I was immediately worried. “Daniel, what is it?” I spoke in such a way I barely recognized. “You were in a coma, we thought you died. There is no reasonable explanation besides the fact that your memory went away.” Daniels voice was filled with hurt. “We can move on. I loved you then, and it’s clear by my feelings even now that I love you now.” I said with tears in my eyes. I just wanted to move on for everyone’s sake. -2 years later- I didn’t immediately go back into the spotlight of my giant acting career. Daniel and I were happily married with 2 kids. Our twins were our life and joy. Harlow and Faye were our two girls. Everyone says girls were made for there daddies, but our girls weren’t. They were made for the both of us. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. They were only 6 months but they already had there own personalities. Harlow was a firecracker always making a ruckus, she talked and played and was so bubbly. Faye was also a bit bubbling but she loved everything outside. I never got my memory back, but we did the best we could. We didn’t risk any medication or anything. I trusted Daniel to tell me everything. He would hold me at night and show me pictures and tell me stories. I trusted every word he said. I loved how my life was. I loved my family. Even though I didn’t remember it all.

I was walking around my small little town as normal. People saying hi to me as I say hello to them. After a while, the new people I would see that I haven’t before would stare ever so weirdly. Maybe I look like someone they’ve known before.

I get to the bar. A place I’ve visited many times before. This time. A different experience. The bartender looking at me with a state of shock. “Something the matter?” I say as I’m about to sit down. She says, “you look really familiar.” I nod and signal for a beer. Man this town is acting quite strange today.

When I get home, I am flipping through the channels and see that a ceremony is about to take place, it’s celebrating the life of Alfred Hitchcock. Tomorrow is the anniversary of his death. April 29th. It will be 40 years since his passing but also my 40th birthday.

Today is my birthday and I think, maybe I will go treat myself to a drink. Hell, I can day drink if I’d like to. I’m 40 after all.

I go to the bar and sit down. The same bartender as yesterday. She asks if I will have my usual, I nod. When she comes back with my beer. She looks pleasantly surprised. “Now I know who you are!” She says. I smile and say, “yeah, I’m...” she cuts me off. “You’re Alfred Hitchcock “ she says. I burst out in laughter. “You’re kidding right? He died 40 years ago!”

Come to think of it. Maybe I do look like him. I’m bald and fat and can be quite angry at times. Nevertheless. How could she believe I was the master of suspense?

I woke up from the same dream again. The din of the clashing swords, still ringing in my head and the smell of blood and rotting bodies, so vivid it almost had me gagging for fresh air. I was ten years old when the nightmares started. Every time the same thing, the gory battlefield, the shouts and cries of dying men, and the figure upon the horse, his face in shadow, leading the charge. What’s wrong with me? I have been thinking about visiting my grandmother for years. I think it’s time to finally listen to what she has to say. She claims she’s an oracle and could be helpful in getting answers. So what if she’s a little eccentric? I cleared my schedule for the day and drove to her house. The cottage was beautiful in the late summer afternoon. The garden was blooming with roses and the smell of my favourite lemon cake drifted out on a balmy breeze. I rang the bell and waited for her to let me in. I could hear her moving around inside, gently humming to herself. The door suddenly opened, and she said, “ Arthur, I knew you would come.”

She was a mere five years old, a serious gleam in her coal black eyes and skin a stark pale against straight, short black hair. A singular mole adorned the tip of her cheekbone. She did not take pleasure in company, but rather sat alone by the window, eyes closed with the impression of one immersed deep in philosophy.

Her parents were concerned for her, as she rarely displayed signs of joy, or companionship like any other of her age. She said very little and never wept either. It was not until her mother returned home one day with a long black case that her interest perked up.

“What is in there?” She said quietly, as her mother slid it onto her old oaken desk.

“A violin, honey,” the parent replied, unzipping the case and lifting the instrument out and apprehensively plucking a string. “I thought I would begin some lessons soon,”

She was speechless. Her mother did not comment, as this was fairly regular. But she could only think about how beautiful the instrument was that rested on her mother’s inexperienced shoulder: the elegant scroll of varnished gold, the long slender bow string with opaline horsehair, the ebony tailpiece, intricately carved with subtle borderline floral designs. Her mother tentatively lifted the bow to the strings and slid it along, creating a cacophonous screech which made the both of them flinch. Her mother rested it back in the case. “Maybe I’ll wait until after my first lesson,”

“Could I try it?”

She was surprised to hear the question roll off her tongue, but she longed for the feel of the smooth chin rest on her cheek and the cylindrical wooden bow underneath her short fingers. “Oh...” her mother frowned. “Sorry, honey, I don’t think so. You might drop it,”

She fumed silently but said “Alright,” and plodded up to her bedroom where she sat in her regular position, feeling the weak sunlight on her eyelids.

She waited for mother and father to depart for the grocery store, then crept back downstairs where, it seemed, the violin laid in wait for her. She picked it up, and suddenly the pieces fell into place as the bow slowly began to glide across the taut strings in a haunting melody that she somehow knew from her head. She had the feeling that she had written it long ago. She closed her eyes in joy and smiled for what was one of the first times ever at the timeless beauty of this instrument. She was so caught up in it, that she didn’t even notice ,half an hour later, her parents push open the front door in awe at the gorgeous tune that uttered from her musical abilities and mutter to each other:

“It’s Mozart,”

I travel to London for the first time. It had always been my dream.

I checked into my hotel and laid down on my bed. I felt a familiar feeling like this was my home. A home I had been to before.

I had always been an anglophone since the age of five.

One day in Covent Garden an elderly Gypsy woman approached me. She offered me a free reading if I bought her violets. So I did. She told me I had been a Queen of England in a previous life. She asked if I every had an English queen doll as a child. I told her I had a Jane Seymour doll. She told me that was who I was. It explains my fascination with the Tudor Dynasty.

"so, you're telling me that you broke into my home, not to kidnap me, but claim that i was a king in my past life?" my frail hands rose to cross over one another, as i glared doubtfully at the intruders which now bowed before me. "this is ridiculous."

"but doesn't it make sense to you?" one of the two probable murderers shot back at me. she was a young woman, looked about in her twenty's, yet she also resembled a stick as she wore armour too big for her. her small hight didn't stop aggravation and power showing through though, especially as she'd rissen to her feet into a pose that looked as if she were about to strike me. "is that any way to treat your king?" i muttered sarcastically. my new 'friend' stamped her foot in frustration.

"the old king vanished. 18 and a bit years ago. the day you were born! her head was cut right off and-" the small angry child like woman stepped towards me to point at my neck, but i instinctively stepped back, "there's a mark going all the way round. does that not seem strange to you?" i shook my head firmly as her eyes drifted to meet mine. i moved my eyes away. the woman child looked at her partner behind her in defeat, who was still kneeling on the floor. with a shrug, he pushed himself off the ground. "the past king had been a great ruler, but the new is tearing this land apart." his grey eyes seemed to burrow into me with despair and anger, "you have the power to save this kingdom. but by doing nothing you will end us all."

hello! this is my first post here :D i don't really know much about writing or stories, but i came here to learn so any feedback would be appreciated! i'm sorry if this was a little cringy, it was the only idea that came to mind.

I breath in and out quickly. Another one on these bad dreams.

I feel liquid on my face. No suprise there, this happens everyday.

As long as I have remembered I have had these bad dreams. They feel so real.

Like lost memories. In these dreams I am someone else. A boy who loves another boy. But their love ends in a tragic double suicide.

Well, I guess it's time to get ready. Today is my first day at my University. I used to live in the states with my mom and little brother.

I have come back to attend college. In Thailand. It's loud and people surround me.

I see a long line. That must be where we get our schedules. I walk to the back of the line and wait for my turn.

"Sawadee kha, my name is Manow would you like to be friends", a girl said to me an another boy. His name was Team.

I made good friends. I met Dean later on hanging out with Team.

P'Dean kept staring at me. It made me feel weird. My heart was beating fast.

After that we kept meeting. Every time we met I would get those dreams. But they were not dreams. I was awake.

(Dean's Pov)

I kept meeting the mouse Pharm everywhere I went. Whenever I saw him he would get shy. Sometimes he would get these panic attacks and tear up.

I would also get these things like flashbacks, but of someone else's life.

(Pharm's Pov)

We began hanging out and going on dates. I told him about my dreams, He said he had the same exact ones.

Of the two gay lovers that were disowned by their fathers. But they would give up.

One killed himself because he felt like it was too much. He made his lover so sad. The tears and screams were so bad. I will never forget that sadness.

He grabbed the gun and shot himself to, and layed next to his lover.

At the funeral they tied red strings around each of the lover's fingers.

So that in their next life they would find each other and live happy.

We went to someone that could help us. They did.

I felt whole. I think Dean did too. The dreams would still come and go for the both of us.

But, it didn't matter. We have found our other half and we're living good.

*This is not entirely my own story. it's a Thai drama called Uwma (Until we meet again)

All I did was put it in my own words and point of view. I hope you like it.*