"You'll wait for me, right? You have to wait for me. I'll come to you; I'll find you no matter what. You have to believe me!" I shout, my voice cracking as tears roll down my cheeks. I want to hold his hand, to press my lips against his face, to make him stay. But he just smiles to himself, his gaze fixed on the far side of the shore, as if my words are nothing but a faint whisper, lost in the wind.
The sun begins its descent, casting a golden hue over the water. My eyes remain locked on him, tracing every freckle, every mole, every feature etched on his face like a map of my longing. As the sun dips lower, its light touches him, and suddenly, it feels as if the world pauses. His face glows, radiant and divine, as though the universe itself worships him.
"What is love, if not worship?" I ask myself, my heart aching with the weight of it.
He glances at the sky, a faint smile lingering on his lips, as if he's savoring a moment I cannot share. Does he know I'm here, sitting beside him? Or am I nothing more than a shadow in this dream?
A voice calls his name from the distance. He rises, brushing the dust from his clothes, the effortless grace in his movements only breaking me further. His curly, messy hair falls into place as he straightens up. He picks up his jacket from the ground—so close to me that I could reach out, touch him, stop him from leaving.
But I don't. I can't.
I watch helplessly as he turns away, his steps growing farther and farther. My chest tightens, a storm of desperation building inside me.
"Asher," I call, my voice trembling, yet clear. "Asher!"
He doesn't turn. He doesn't stop.
"I'll come for you, wait for me—please!" I shout again, my hands trembling as I wipe the tears from my face.
But he keeps walking, his figure fading into the distance, leaving me behind.
"Asher!" I scream one last time, the pain of losing him consuming me, burning through my chest. It's unbearable, suffocating.
And then I wake up.
The loud, shrill sound of my alarm cuts through the air. My breathing is ragged, my heart pounding.
"No," I whisper, my voice hoarse. "No. No, no, this can't be."
I leap from the bed, pacing my room, my mind reeling. His name lingers in my head, refusing to fade.
"Asher," I murmur, clutching at my chest. "Why Asher? Why him? Even after the dream has ended, why do I still remember his name?"
But there's no answer, only the echo of my desperation in the quiet room.
I sit alone, replaying the other night in my mind—Asher walking away, leaving me there. He didn't even glance back, not once, despite my desperate hope that he would. A lingering ache settles in my chest as I recall the way his back moved farther and farther away, a silent rejection that felt all too real. It's like déjà vu, a fragment of some distant reality I've long forgotten. But no, I tell myself, shaking the thought away. I'm just overthinking again.
---
Today's my appointment with Dr. Asher. Nurse Vanessa is checking my blood pressure, and as usual, she manages to deflate my confidence effortlessly. A well-educated, poised professional like her feels like a walking reminder of my inadequacies. I'm just a girl who can barely get her left brain to function, while hers seems like a perfectly tuned machine.
"How was the date?" I blurt out, regretting it the moment the words leave my mouth. The cuff of the sphygmomanometer tightens uncomfortably around my arm as if it, too, disapproves of my nosiness.
Vanessa's eyes narrow. "No personal questions, Miss Kemp." Her tone is sharp, almost scolding, and I feel my face flush with embarrassment. It's humiliating to try and be friendly, only to have someone slap you down with their rudeness. For a moment, I think, Pretty faces don't make up for cold hearts.
After a brief exchange about my medications and symptoms, she leads me to Dr. Asher's cabin. Another patient exits as we approach, and Vanessa gestures for me to go inside. I knock first, hesitant.
"Yes, Miss Kemp," Asher says from inside.
As I step through the door, it feels like the air is sucked out of the room. He's standing a few meters away, engrossed in a file, his face lit by the soft glow of the afternoon light filtering in. He doesn't look up immediately, and I find myself frozen in place. My legs won't move.
What if I can't leave if I step closer? What if I'm trapped here, in this moment, with him?
As if sensing something is wrong, his hazel-green eyes finally lift to meet mine. "Miss Kemp?" he asks, concern flickering in his expression.
"Miss Kemp!" Vanessa's voice snaps from outside, jolting me.
I blink, realizing I've been standing like a statue in the doorway.
"Breathe," Asher says calmly, his voice soothing.
I exhale shakily, then inhale again, following his cue.
"Again," he encourages, his tone steady, his gaze fixed on me.
The simple act of breathing feels monumental, but as I follow his instructions, the fog lifts slightly. My legs unfreeze, and I manage to take a seat across from him.
"How are you feeling now?" he asks, his voice measured.
"Fine," I lie.
"Now, tell me what's been going on," he says, pulling out his notepad.
The sight of that notepad irritates me. It's a constant reminder that he only cares about my well-being because it's his job—not because I mean anything to him personally.
"I-uh... I had a dream," I begin hesitantly.
"About the guy again?" he asks, his pen poised.
I settle back into the chair, my eyes fixed on him. How much he resembles the Asher in my dreams—the same hazel-green eyes, the faint freckles, that pristine, elegant nose. He looks like a younger version of him.
"Yes," I admit. "Lately, sleep doesn't even feel restful anymore. It's just a gateway to see him. And every time, it's the same thing. I talk to him, cry for him, beg him to stay. And he... he just walks away. Always."
Asher's pen pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. "That doesn't sound good," he says.
"It's not," I reply, sarcasm lacing my tone.
"Anything else? Any pain or other symptoms?"
"Just the dreams," I say flatly.
He scribbles something in his notepad, the silence stretching uncomfortably. I shift my focus to the ticking clock on the wall, the rhythmic sound amplifying the quiet. Below it, a painting catches my eye.
It depicts a boy sitting on the shore, gazing at the sunset. The colors are muted but soothing, pulling me in.
"I'll recommend you see a therapist," Asher says, his voice breaking my trance. "I know someone who's very good."
"Okay," I murmur, still half-lost in the painting.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asks, his gaze following mine to the artwork.
"It's mesmerizing," I admit softly.
"It's called Lovers by the Shore," he says, walking toward it.
"Lovers? But there's only one person in it," I say, stepping closer.
Asher folds his arms, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Look closer. He's not alone."
I squint, searching the canvas. "I don't see anyone else. Just the boy."
He chuckles, shaking his head. "When I bought this, the artist told me the same thing—that it's called Lovers by the Shore. I spent hours trying to find the other person, and finally, the artist explained it to me."
I glance at him, intrigued.
"The boy in the painting is named Sarswat," he begins. "His lover, Arin, once told him, 'People will find me wherever you are because we are one, always and forever.' Sarswat isn't alone, Rae. Where he is, she's there too, even if she's not physically present. It's a divine form of love."
For a moment, I let his words sink in. My gaze drifts back to the painting, and suddenly, it doesn't seem so empty anymore.