Morning unfurled slowly, pale light pooling across the bed where the midnight blue dress still lay untouched. Amara sat quietly at the edge of the mattress, wrapped in a sweater too big for her, the sleeves tugged over her hands. Her thoughts wandered in slow, uneven circles—too loud for the stillness of the room.
The dreams had started to blur, their edges softening into something she couldn't quite hold. Fear and longing, threaded so closely together now, it was hard to tell one from the other. The violet-eyed man lingered in the corners of her mind—not speaking, not touching—but always there. She woke with a trace of him on her skin, like a scent she couldn't place but couldn't forget. His gaze still pressed gently against her chest, as though it belonged there. As though he did.
She needed air.
Pulling the sweater closer, Amara rose and crossed to the window. Outside, the city moved as it always did—buses growled past, footsteps tapped across pavements, vendors called out half-hearted greetings as they set up for the day. The world kept turning. But inside her, something felt... still.
She stepped outside, hands tucked into her pockets, the morning air cool against her face. She walked without thinking, past shuttered shops and sleepy corners of the city as it stretched itself awake. But no matter how far she went, her mind circled back to him.
Those eyes. That look. Like he saw something in her she didn't yet know. Like he remembered a version of her she hadn't met.
She didn't understand it—but buried somewhere deep, too far down to reach, the connection pulsed like a heartbeat. And even without answers, there was a strange peace in that.
The city roared around her, yet she felt like she was drowning in the silence of her own thoughts. That voice, so soft and steady, had become the only thing that mattered.
"Amara." It haunted her again.
She couldn't say if it was the city, the streets, or the man who lingered in her mind like a shadow, but something had shifted. Subtle, but steady. The world felt… different. Like she didn't quite belong in it anymore.
Morning light spilled across the sidewalk, chasing off the remnants of her thoughts, if only for a while. Still, as she walked deeper into the heart of the city, the unease clung to her.
Those violet eyes stayed with her—quiet, persistent—as if they were watching from the corners of her memory.
She didn't plan to go to the bookstore.
But somehow, that's where she ended up. Her steps had carried her on old paths, past places that used to mean something, until she stood in front of a little shop wedged between a coffeehouse and a fading tailor's sign. She'd spent hours here back in college, hiding between pages when the world felt too sharp.
She wasn't sure what she was looking for now.
The bell above the door gave a soft chime as she stepped inside. The warm, familiar scent of paper and ink met her like an old friend. Something in her chest eased—not entirely, but enough.
She moved slowly, fingers trailing across the spines of worn books, letting the quiet settle around her. Fantasy novels, old biographies, poetry that smelled faintly of dust and time. Her thoughts softened, though the heaviness beneath them lingered.
By the window, something caught her eye.
A small table, partly hidden behind a leaning stack of paperbacks. On it sat a leather-bound journal—simple, unmarked. The cover was smooth and dark, catching the light in a quiet way that made her pause.
She reached out, fingertips brushing the cover.
The pages inside were blank.
Crisp. Unwritten.
But for a flicker of a second, her vision wavered—just enough to make her wonder if something had tried to surface, something unseen.
At the bottom corner of the first page, a line of handwriting appeared. Small. Careful.
"You knew me before the world broke us."
Her fingers curled slightly, holding the journal a little tighter.
She looked around, but no one seemed to notice. The quiet murmur of the shop carried on, undisturbed by the sudden shift inside her. She closed the journal slowly and took a small step back, her breath catching in her throat.
And then, outside—across the street—she saw him.
He stood still, watching her through the window, violet eyes steady and unreadable.
For a second, she forgot to breathe.
Their eyes met, and the moment stretched, delicate and unreal.
She blinked.
He was gone.
The door behind her creaked as she rushed out, nearly stumbling onto the curb. Her head turned in every direction, scanning the street. Buses groaned, people passed, conversations flowed.
But he wasn't there.
And as she stood in the middle of it all, heart beating too fast, she realized with a strange, unshakable clarity—
He wasn't just a dream.
He was real.