THE MAN I MET IN MY DREAMS

I dreamed about him again.

The same man.

The same rain.

The same strange feeling that somehow, somewhere, I had loved him before.

I stood in the middle of an empty street, barefoot beneath the rain. The sky above me was almost completely black, except for the faint glow of a streetlamp several feet away.

And underneath it stood a man.

He was wearing a long black coat, his dark hair soaked from the rain.

I couldn't see his face.

No matter how hard I tried.

Every time I looked at him, something seemed to blur the details. His eyes. His features. Even the shape of his smile.

But I knew his voice.

I knew his hands.

And somehow, I knew the way he looked at me.

Like I was the only person left in the world.

He took a step toward me.

“Don't go.”

His voice was quiet.

Broken.

I frowned.

“Who are you?”

He stopped.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then he smiled.

It wasn't a happy smile.

It was the kind of smile someone gave when they already knew how a story would end.

“You always ask me that.”

My heart tightened.

“Have we met before?”

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he reached for my hand.

His fingers wrapped around mine.

Warm.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

“You won't remember,” he whispered.

“Remember what?”

He lifted my hand toward his lips.

And just before he kissed it, I saw something behind him.

A hospital corridor.

White walls.

A red light blinking above a door.

Someone screaming my name.

Elena!

I froze.

The man suddenly pulled me closer.

“Please,” he whispered against my hair. “Not this time.”

“Not what?”

His arms tightened around me.

“Don't fall in love with me again.”

My heart stopped.

Again?

I pulled away.

“What do you mean?”

Finally, he lifted his face.

For the first time, I was about to see him.

I was about to see the face of the man I had dreamed about for three years.

But just before I could—

I woke up.

---

I sat upright in bed, gasping for air.

My room was dark.

Rain tapped softly against the window.

For a few seconds, I couldn't move.

My heart was pounding so hard that I pressed a hand against my chest.

The dream.

Again.

I looked at the clock.

3:17 a.m.

It was always 3:17.

I didn't know why.

I didn't know why the same dream kept coming back.

But it had been happening for three years.

Three years of the same man.

Three years of the same street.

Three years of waking up with the unbearable feeling that I'd lost someone.

Someone who didn't even exist.

I reached for the notebook on my bedside table.

It was old now, its corners worn from being carried everywhere. There were pages filled with descriptions of the dreams I'd had over the years.

Things I remembered.

Things I was terrified of forgetting.

I opened to the latest page.

My handwriting filled the paper.

He was crying tonight.

I swallowed.

Then I added:

He told me not to fall in love with him again.

I stared at the sentence.

Again.

Why did he always say things like that?

Why did I feel like I should already know him?

I turned the page.

There were hundreds of entries.

He likes black coffee.

He hates crowded places.

He always touches my left hand when he's nervous.

There is a scar near his eyebrow.

He calls me by a name I don't recognize.

And underneath them all, written on the very first page three years ago:

I dreamed about a man I've never met.

I closed the notebook.

Maybe I was losing my mind.

That was the only explanation that made sense.

I got out of bed and walked to the kitchen.

The apartment was silent.

I switched on the light and started making coffee.

My hands were still shaking.

I reached for the cinnamon.

Then stopped.

I stared at the jar.

Something about it suddenly felt wrong.

I didn't like cinnamon.

I never had.

I didn't know why.

But I knew that with absolute certainty.

I pushed the jar away.

My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

It was my best friend, Mia.

Mia: Please tell me you're awake.

I sighed.

Me: Unfortunately.

The reply came almost immediately.

Mia: Coffee?

I smiled.

Me: Give me ten minutes.

---

By nine in the morning, the dream already felt distant.

That was the strange thing.

I could remember the emotions, but not the details.

His voice was fading.

His touch was fading.

Even the street was becoming blurry.

But the sadness remained.

It always did.

Mia was already waiting for me when I arrived at our usual café.

She waved from the corner table.

“You look terrible.”

“Good morning to you too.”

“You didn't sleep.”

“I did.”

“You look like you fought a ghost.”

I sat down.

“Maybe I did.”

Mia raised an eyebrow.

“The dream again?”

I nodded.

She knew about them.

She was the only person who did.

For three years, she had listened to me talk about a man who didn't exist.

“You know,” she said, stirring her coffee, “maybe you should stop writing them down.”

“Why?”

“Because you're becoming obsessed.”

I looked at her.

“I just don't want to forget.”

“Forget what?”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

That was the problem.

I didn't know.

I didn't know who he was.

I didn't know why I dreamed about him.

I didn't know why waking up from those dreams felt like losing someone.

“I don't know,” I finally said.

Mia reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

“You're going to meet someone real one day.”

I smiled faintly.

“Maybe I already did.”

She laughed.

“Unless you're secretly dating Dream Boy, I don't think so.”

I laughed too.

For the first time that morning, I felt normal.

Until someone walked past our table.

And the scent of his cologne hit me.

I froze.

My smile disappeared.

That scent.

I knew it.

I had smelled it in my dreams.

Mia noticed.

“Elena?”

I didn't answer.

I turned around.

A man was standing near the counter.

Tall.

Dark hair.

Black coat.

My heart stopped.

No.

It couldn't be.

He was facing away from me.

I stared at him.

My hands went cold.

The café suddenly felt too quiet.

The world around me seemed to disappear.

He turned slightly.

Not enough for me to see his face.

Just enough for me to see the side of his jaw.

My breathing stopped.

I had never seen him before.

I knew that.

I had never met him.

And yet every part of me screamed—

Run to him.

He turned around.

Our eyes met.

For one second, neither of us moved.

His expression changed.

Shock.

Then fear.

Real fear.

Like he'd just seen a ghost.

Me.

He knew me.

I stood up slowly.

“Do I know you?”

His eyes stayed on mine.

He didn't answer.

Then, quietly, he said,

“You still hate cinnamon in your coffee.”

My blood ran cold.

Mia looked at me.

I looked at him.

The sentence echoed inside my head.

You still hate cinnamon in your coffee.

The exact same thing he'd said in my dream.

My lips parted.

“How do you know that?”

He took one step toward me.

Then another.

His eyes never left mine.

And when he finally stopped in front of me, I saw the small scar near his eyebrow.

The one I had written about in my journal.

The one I had never seen in real life.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Because I've been looking for you.”

My heart pounded.

“Who are you?”

Something broke inside his expression.

He looked at me like the question had hurt him before.

Then he whispered,

“You really don't remember me.”

I shook my head.

“No.”

He closed his eyes.

For a moment, he looked almost relieved.

And then—

almost devastated.

When he opened them again, there were tears in his eyes.

He leaned closer.

“You will.”

I stepped back.

“How?”

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he said something that made the entire world stop.

“Because this is the third time I've found you.”

My breath caught.

“What?”

He turned away.

“Wait.”

He stopped.

I grabbed his sleeve.

“Who are you?”

He looked down at my hand.

Then back at me.

His voice was barely audible.

“My name is Adrian.”

A pause.

“Adrian Cross.”

The name hit me like a memory.

A memory I didn't have.

A memory that wasn't mine.

And suddenly—

I heard his voice again.

Not from today.

Not from the café.

From somewhere else.

Somewhere I couldn't remember.

Don't fall in love with me again.

I let go of his sleeve.

Adrian stared at me.

And for the first time in three years, I remembered something from my dreams.

Not his face.

Not his name.

But his final words.

“You always forget me, Elena.”

I looked at him in horror.

“How do you know my name?”

Adrian went completely still.

Neither of us spoke.

Then he whispered—

“I was hoping you'd never remember.”

End of Chapter One.