The First Time I Saw Him

I was fifteen when I first saw him — not in the waking world, but in a dream so vivid, it settled into my memory like it had always been there. The kind of dream you never forget, because some part of you whispers this is real. 
In the dream, I was in a place that didn’t belong to time. A meadow beneath a lavender sky, with stars flickering like they were breathing. There was a lake, still as glass, reflecting a moon that looked bigger than the sky could hold. I stood on its shore, barefoot, the hem of my gown soaked in dew. Not a modern dress — but something out of a different century. Heavy silk, soft laces. I looked like someone from a story long forgotten. 
And then — I turned. 
He was already there. 
On a horse, tall and still, watching me. 
I didn’t know his name. I had never seen his face before. 
But I knew him. Deeply. Instinctively. As though my soul had been searching for him in every crowd I’d ever walked through. 
He dismounted slowly, never taking his eyes off me. There was no fear, no doubt, only a stillness — like we had both arrived. I felt warmth rush into my chest as he stepped closer. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. 
We danced. 
No music. No words. Just the rhythm of two beings who had known each other before names, before countries, before time began counting years. I looked into his eyes, and the world disappeared. In his gaze, I found every emotion I had never felt in waking life — love, safety, devotion, and something else… a promise. 
Wait for me. 
I’ll find you again. 
When I woke up, I cried. 
Not because it was over, but because I knew it wasn’t just a dream. 
From that moment on, I waited. 
Not actively. Not dramatically. Just quietly — a secret thread running through my life, pulling me forward. I saw glimpses of him in strangers. I searched for his eyes in passing faces. Now and then, he’d return in my sleep. On a boat. In a forest. Across a battlefield. Always looked at me like he remembered too. 
I didn’t know when, or how, but I believed I would meet him again. 
In this life. In this skin. In a moment I couldn’t plan. 
And I did.

I was somewhere I didn't recognize — but somehow, I knew I'd been there before.


A field maybe. Or a shore. Or a garden.


The air felt like early morning — cool, gentle, full of fog that didn't cling.


He looked the same — tall, warm-eyed, half-hidden behind that quiet expression I used to chase meaning from — but he was wearing something that didn't belong to this lifetime. A soft linen shirt. Dark slacks. Barefoot.


He walked toward me like the earth made room for him.


And when he spoke, it didn't sound like a voice.


It sounded like a thought I'd been holding in my chest for years.


He looked at me for a long time. Then said, quietly:


He smiled — not with his mouth, but with his whole face. The way he used to smile when he let his walls down for half a second.


"I had to go. You had to stay," he said. "But we'll meet again."


"I know," he said softly. "But you will."


He reached out — not to hold me, but just to touch. A brush of fingers against my wrist.


And the moment he did, the dream blurred.


Colors folded. Time thinned. The whole world bent inward — not collapsing but converging.


And everything in between — the laughter, the silence, the waiting, the ache.


"I know," he said. "And I never stopped."


I wanted to ask why, to ask how to ask why it wasn't enough back then.


But instead, I asked the only question that mattered now:


"I'll find you," he said. "In the next one, or the next. I always do."


These were soft. Steady. A strange, aching peace.


Like I had crossed through some quiet veil to find him again — not to bring him back, but to understand why I had to let him go.


I felt chosen. Even if only in another lifetime


Chapter 19 - Chapter Nineteen: The Dream That Didn’t Hurt