August 28th
The afternoon light filtered through curtains Shant couldn't quite see, casting everything in that golden haze dreams always seemed to have. They were sitting somewhere, a room maybe, or a park bench. The details didn't matter because all he could focus on was her.
Her face was clearer now than it had been in previous dreams. Sharp enough that he knew he'd recognize her if he ever saw her in waking life. The curve of her jaw. The way her eyes held sadness even when she smiled. The small furrow between her brows when she was thinking too hard about something.
She was talking about flowers.
"They're beautiful because they wither," she said, her voice soft, almost resigned. "That's what makes them worth anything at all. If they lasted forever, we wouldn't care."
"That's depressing," Shant heard himself say.
"It's realistic." She looked down at her hands, fingers tracing invisible patterns on her lap. "Love is like that too, isn't it? It fades. People think it's forever when it starts, but..."
"But what?"
She hesitated, and he could feel the weight of what was coming before she even spoke.
"When we get into good colleges," she said quietly, "there will be moments when we won't be able to reconnect with each other. We'll be in different places, meeting different people. We'll have colleagues, friends, people who are there when we need someone. And in those moments... we might not rely on each other anymore. We might choose them instead. And that might ruin us."
The fear in her voice was so naked it hurt to hear.
And he, the version of him that lived in this memory or vision or whatever the hell this was, didn't reach for her hand. Didn't pull her close. Didn't tell her he understood.
He shouted.
"You're always thinking negatives!" His voice came out harsher than he meant, defensive and raw. "If I'm in love with you, I'll rely on you, right? It just doesn't make sense that you think like that. Are you telling me you'll find someone else? Is that what this is about?"
Her face crumpled. Not dramatically. Just a small collapse inward, like a flower closing its petals against the cold.
"That's not what I..."
But the dream was already dissolving, her words scattering like ash in wind, and Shant was falling backward into darkness and the sound of breaking plates.
CRASH.
Shant's eyes snapped open.
For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling of his small room, his heart still racing from the dream. From her face. From the way he'd hurt her without even trying.
Another crash from the kitchen. His father's voice, loud and jagged: "I work all day and this is what I come home to? This garbage?"
His mother's voice, quieter, strained: "I'm just asking you to..."
"Asking? You're nagging."
Shant closed his eyes. The familiar script. The same fight in different words, over and over and over.
He pushed himself upright, rubbing his face with both hands. The dream still clung to him. The golden light, her sad eyes, the flowers withering between them. He glanced at the small desk shoved against the wall, where his diary sat half-open, pen resting in the crease.
He'd been documenting these dreams for months now. At first, he thought they were random. Stress, maybe. His psychology professors would probably tell him it was his subconscious processing something. But the more he wrote, the more he saw the pattern.
The same errors, over and over.
Different dreams, different moments, but always the same core problems. Running away when things got difficult. Lying to avoid conflict. Lashing out when people got too close.
Another shout from the kitchen snapped him back. He heard something else break, a mug maybe, and his mother's sharp intake of breath.
Shant was on his feet before he thought about it.
When he walked into the kitchen, his father was standing near the table, face flushed, jaw tight. A plate lay shattered on the floor, rice and dal splattered across the tiles. His mother stood by the counter, arms wrapped around herself, eyes down.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Shant's voice came out harder than he intended.
His father turned, eyes narrowing. "Stay out of this."
"Stay out of it? You just threw a plate at the wall like a child."
"Shant..." his mother started, her tone pleading.
But Shant couldn't stop. "She's worried about bills. About keeping this place running. And you're shouting at her because dinner isn't perfect?"
His father took a step toward him. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know you're acting like an asshole."
His mother's voice cut through, sudden and sharp. "It's all happening because of you! If only you hadn't..."
She stopped. Her eyes found Shant standing in the doorway, and something in her expression collapsed. She looked away, her jaw tight, hands trembling.
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
His father stared at her for a long moment, something ugly flickering across his face. Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen, slamming the door to the bedroom behind him.
Shant's mother let out a shaky breath. She bent down and started picking up the broken pieces, her hands still trembling.
Shant crouched beside her, helping. Neither of them spoke.
But as he gathered shards of ceramic into his palm, something cold settled in his chest.
The way he'd spoken to his father.
The anger in his voice.
The way he'd shouted at her in the dream.
You're always thinking negatives. It just doesn't make sense that you think like that.
He'd sounded exactly like him.
Shant sat at his desk an hour later, the apartment finally quiet. His mother had gone to bed. His father was still locked in the bedroom. The city outside hummed with distant traffic and late-night voices.
He opened his diary to a blank page, pen hovering over the paper.
August 28th.
He paused, then started writing.
She was scared. She told me what she was afraid of. And I yelled at her. Why did I yell? Why couldn't I just listen?
His hand stilled. He stared at the words, then kept going.
She wasn't being negative. She was being honest. She was telling me what frightened her. That distance would pull us apart, that we'd find other people to lean on, that the love would fade like flowers in winter. And instead of holding that fear with her, I made it about me. I got defensive. I turned her vulnerability into an accusation.
Just like he does.
Shant's jaw tightened. He could still hear the echo of the plate shattering. His mother's quiet voice trying to explain about the bills. His father's anger, always simmering, always ready to boil over at the smallest thing.
I've seen this pattern in the dreams for months now. Different moments, same problems. Running when I should stay. Lying when I should be honest. Shouting when I should listen.
He pressed the pen harder against the page.
I can't do that again.
I can't be the person who makes her feel small for being afraid.
I can't be him.
His hand was shaking now. The pen moved faster, almost frantic.
But what if I am? What if no matter how many times I try, I just keep...
The pen snapped.
Ink bled across the page in a dark spreading stain, covering his words, drowning them in black.
Shant stared at the broken pen in his hand. The jagged plastic edge. The ink on his fingers.
He set it down carefully on the desk. Then he closed the diary.
Outside, the city kept humming. Inside, Shant sat in silence, watching the ink spread across the page. By morning, the dream would fade. Her voice, the light, the way she looked at him. But the flowers would stay. They always did.
The morning light came through the kitchen window in pale strips, catching dust in the air. Shant sat at the small dining table, staring at his plate. Toast and eggs, untouched.
His mother moved quietly around the kitchen, putting away dishes from last night. The broken plate was gone. The floor was clean. Like nothing had happened.
His father hadn't come out of the bedroom yet.
Shant picked up his fork, put it down again. His mind kept circling back to the dream from last night. Not the one about the withering flowers. A different one. Earlier, maybe. From before things went wrong.
They'd been sitting somewhere sunny. A garden, or a park. She was laughing at something he'd said, her face bright and open in a way he hadn't seen in the other dreams. Her laugh had been light, surprised, like she hadn't expected him to be funny. And she'd been talking about flowers again, but this time it was different.
"Look at these ones," she'd said, pointing at something just out of frame. The flowers were bright, yellow maybe, or white. He couldn't remember exactly, but he remembered thinking they suited her. "They're perfect. I could look at them forever."
"They'll wilt eventually," he'd replied, but his tone was light. Teasing.
"I know. That's why I'm looking now."
And she'd smiled at him, and the dream had that golden quality again, but warmer this time. Less melancholic. Just... good.
"Shant."
His mother's voice pulled him back. She was standing by the table, holding a small fold of bills in her hand. She set it down next to his plate, her fingers lingering on the edge of the table.
"Don't worry about anything," she said quietly. "Just focus on your studies. I'll do everything to support you."
Her eyes looked tired. The kind of tired that sleep wouldn't fix.
Shant stared at the money. It wasn't much. He knew it wasn't much. But she was giving it to him anyway.
"Ma, you don't have to..."
"Take it," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "You need it for college. Just... focus on your future. Okay?"
He wanted to say something. Thank you. I'm sorry. I'll fix this. But the words stuck in his throat, so he just nodded and pocketed the money.
The bills felt heavier than they should. He hated taking it. Hated that she had to give it. But he needed it, and she knew that, so he didn't argue.
She turned back to the counter, and Shant finished his breakfast in silence.
He grabbed his bag and left before his father woke up. The walk to campus was the same as always. Crowded buses, the smell of street food, the noise of the city waking up. He kept his earphones in the entire time.
Sad songs. Always sad songs lately.
The music filled the gaps in his head, kept him from thinking too much about the dreams. But even with the volume turned up, he couldn't stop the questions from looping.
What were these dreams? And who was she, really? Why now, why so often, what was he supposed to do with them? Why did some feel good and others make him want to break things?
Some of the dreams were bad. Fights. Him walking away. Him saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. But some of them were good. Like last night's. Her laughing in the sun. The flowers. The warmth.
So why did he always seem to be the one messing it up?
The campus was already buzzing by the time he arrived. Students clustered in groups near the main building, laughing, talking, living lives that seemed so far removed from his own. He kept his head down and kept walking.
"Yo, Shant!"
He turned. Rishi was jogging toward him, backpack slung over one shoulder, grinning like he didn't have a care in the world.
"What's up, man," Rishi said, falling into step beside him. "Ready for the lecture?"
Shant pulled out one earphone. "Hmm."
Rishi gave him a look. "That's it? Just 'hmm'?" He paused, narrowing his eyes. "Something happened, didn't it?"
Shant hesitated, then sighed. "Yeah. Last night."
"Your parents again?"
"Yeah."
"Bad?"
"My dad threw a plate. My mom shouted back. I got in the middle of it. Same shit, different day."
Rishi winced. "Same as last week?"
"Same as every week."
"Your mom okay?"
Shant shrugged. "She's still there. She's still dealing with it. So yeah, I guess."
They walked in silence for a moment, the campus noise filling the space between them.
"Still having those dreams?" Rishi asked, his tone casual but probing.
"Yeah."
"The ones about the girl?"
"Yeah."
Rishi shrugged. "Maybe it's just stress, bro. Your brain processing all the chaos at home or whatever. You know, subconscious shit."
"Maybe."
But Shant didn't believe that. Not anymore.
Rishi glanced at his watch, then his eyes widened. "Shit. What time is it?"
Shant checked his phone. "Nine fifty-eight."
"Dude, we need to run. Professor Mehra's lecture. If we're late, he's not letting us in."
They broke into a jog, weaving through clusters of students, backpacks bouncing, the lecture hall looming ahead.
They made it just as the door was about to close. Professor Mehra stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, his expression unimpressed as Shant and Rishi slipped into seats near the back.
"Cutting it close, gentlemen," Mehra said dryly.
"Sorry, sir," Rishi muttered.
Shant didn't say anything. He pulled out his notebook, clicked his pen, and tried to focus.
Professor Mehra turned to the board and wrote in large letters: REDUCTIONISM.
"Today," Mehra began, "we're going to talk about breaking things down. Reducing complex phenomena to their simplest components. The idea that if you understand the parts, you understand the whole."
Shant stared at the word on the board.
Reductionism.
Breaking things down. Understanding the parts.
He thought about the dreams. The fragments. The pieces that didn't quite fit together yet. Her face getting clearer. The flowers. The fights. The good moments and the bad ones.
Was that what he was doing? Trying to reduce something complicated into something he could understand?
"But here's the problem," Mehra continued, pacing in front of the board. "Reductionism assumes that the whole is just the sum of its parts. But is it? Can you really understand love by breaking it down into neurochemicals and evolutionary impulses? Can you understand a person by reducing them to their behaviors and patterns?"
Shant's pen hovered over the page.
Patterns.
That word again.
"Some argue," Mehra said, "that reductionism misses the bigger picture. That by focusing on the parts, we lose sight of the meaning. The context. The why behind the what."
Shant wasn't writing anymore. He was just listening.
The why behind the what.
Why was he seeing these dreams?
Why her?
Why now?
Rishi nudged him. "You good?"
Shant blinked, realizing he'd been staring at the same blank page for the past five minutes. "Yeah. I'm fine."
But he wasn't fine.
Because as Professor Mehra kept talking about breaking things down and understanding the pieces, all Shant could think about was that he didn't understand anything at all.
He didn't understand why he kept seeing her.
He didn't understand why some dreams were happy and some were devastating.
He didn't understand why he always seemed to be the one ruining it.
And he didn't understand what any of it was leading toward.
But somewhere, in the back of his mind, a date kept circling.
Not today. Not yet.
But soon.