The Neighbor's Desire (21+) • VK

FIVE

What we have christened reality is an even greater illusion than the world of dreams.

I love this particular saying by Dalí, the surrealist artist, who defined dreams and reality even before people knew their real meanings.

Dreams, supposedly meaningless, challenge the boundary between what's real and what's imagined.

As the twisted, bitter, and more honest part within our soul—namely subconscious—plays a dominant part in it, many psyche scientists believe that dreams, in fact, have a strong relation with reality, even when they're just fragments of imaginations created by desperate minds.

And these messy imaginations are said to be more realistic than what we consider reality—a greater illusion than those of dreams.

I loved this particular saying.

But I don't think I do anymore.

Because ever since the night at the bar, I can't stop dreaming of dark brown eyes, slender fingers, and soft lips.

The brave spheres fixated on me like I'm some rare artwork—forgotten and coated with dust, waiting to be gently wiped bare; the warm wrist cradling mine, as if the slightest pressure might shatter my fragile being; the distracting mouth whispering sensuously that I'll get through the exhausting phase—all the dreams are vivid.

Still, they don't feel real.

Because I keep dreaming about him.

So often that I'm scared to go to sleep.

As much as I'm excited.

In the first ever dream, I was in the exam table while he held my wrist with gentle fingers, checking my pulse, and murmuring that everything would be alright, so assuredly that I could feel myself believing him.

When he leaned down to brush a strand of hair from my face, he was so close to my body that I could smell the same fresh cologne.

Handsome. He looked so handsome.

His beautiful, sharp eyes, wide shoulders, and assuring smile—he is a dream himself.

My heart started to beat loudly, and he, the ever-responsible doctor, helped me sit straight with a kind hand on my arm—I could almost feel the warmth from it spreading throughout my body.

Then, in that soft, deep voice of his, he asked if I was uncomfortable. I said no, blushing, and probably hearing my erratically beating heart, he smiled.

At me.

The second and third dreams, I don't remember them.

But the fourth dream, I remember it as clear as a day.

It was strange.

In that dream, I was the doctor, and he was my patient. I was examining him, his body, as he kept blushing, almost in an unsettling way.

His heart was racing, pounding so hard that the monitor let out an alarming series of beeps. The rate kept climbing, faster and faster. It felt... dreadful.

The sound grew louder, unbearably so, until it felt like my ears were going to bleed.

I woke up drenched in sweat. It was almost four in the morning, my head pounding and my hands shaking. Fear coursed through me, consuming every inch of my body. It was almost like I was scared.

Of... losing him.

The fifth and sixth dreams had been the same—we were eating together in the same restaurant I'd eaten at the last Saturday with mom.