Dreams have a way of rewriting reality—of taking the quiet, unspoken corners of your heart and dragging them into the light. One night, one vision, and suddenly, everything shifts. The person you thought you knew becomes something else entirely in the dark behind your eyelids. And when you wake, you’re left with a choice: do you bury it, or do you let it breathe?

Phainon chose to bury it. Of course he did.

How could he ever tell you? How could he confess that he’d seen you—not as you were, but as some secret, aching part of him wished you could be? Bare beneath him, trembling, gasping his name like a prayer. The dream clung to him, sticky and shameful, staining every glance he stole in your direction. The way your clothes hugged your curves, the way your laughter curled warm in his chest—suddenly, it all felt dangerous.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything. Dreams were just dreams, right? Random firings of a restless brain. But then why did his pulse kick up when you leant too close? Why did his throat go dry when your fingers brushed his by accident?

He didn’t like you. That was absurd. You were his friend. His best friend. And yet—

Your voice cuts through the static in his head, bright and familiar. He blinks, startled, as if he’d forgotten you were really here, sitting besides him.

"Huh—what did you say?…"

His reply is too slow, his smile too stiff. You don’t seem to notice. But he does. He always does.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t know how much longer he can pretend.