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CHAPTER THIRTEEN dust in the wind
⋆*✧･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:
FEW PEOPLE COULD TRULY say that they 'had it all'. It was such a broad term, after all, and could mean something different to each person. While one individual might believe that 'having it all' means drowning in millions of dollars and living in the nicest mansion money could buy, another could just say that it's a career they enjoy and a family they're close to. To these people, there's always something they're missing—maybe 'having it all' is unattainable to them because they're stuck making minimum wage and barely keeping their head afloat, or because they have a strained relationship with their parents. That's the point, after all: 'having it all' is unattainable. Something you can strive for but never reach.
But Sabine Lambert truly did have it all.
She was a twenty-four-year-old artist living in the best part of Dijon, married to an amazing woman who fully supported her and her career, and made an incredible amount of money without exerting herself too much. She was close to her both her parents and her wife's parents, and had a close-knit group of friends and a toy poodle she would give the world to. Plus, she and Camille had started talking about adoption.
Sometimes, life was so good that it didn't feel real. How could someone be this fortunate, hold this many cards in the game of life? How could someone have everything without stepping on others for it? When would be the day that everything crumbled?
But there was no catch to the hand she'd been dealt. She hadn't made a deal with the Devil, nor rubbed a genie's magic lamp. She'd simply worked for what she had, even if it hadn't really felt like work. The only thing she'd been fortunate about was having people who supported her.
So, Sabine was happy. She had no reason not to be. She woke up every morning in her wife's arms, saw her friends nearly every day, and painted to her heart's content. Her life was hers, and she was young enough to have years and years more to come.
If she had to change one thing, though...
Sometimes, Sabine would wake up in the middle of the night completely drenched in sweat. As she lay there gasping, brushing her matted hair out of her face, her gut would tie itself in knots. And within the crevices of her mind would come a voice. A voice that didn't sound like her own.
You're not supposed to be here.
The episodes—which was what Sabine had started calling them—didn't happen regularly. They were sporadic; they could pop up twice in one week and then vanish for months on end. But they always returned. And they were accompanied by another bizarre symptom: dreams.
On nights bereft of the episodes, Sabine would have normal dreams. About Camille, about her childhood, about the future. And sure, a weird one would pop in on occasion—Sabine had once dreamt of a falling sky, with stars cascading down like raindrops—but they were still... well, to be expected. A little hazy, smudged, difficult to remember the exact details of in the morning.
