"Between friends, unspoken feelings can feel like a fragile thread pulled taut; one denies its existence while the other hides behind its delicate weave, both yearning for the courage to unravel what lies beneath."
Ian and Julian, long-time best fri...
"I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you." ~Ian
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The dream had been haunting me for days now, creeping into my sleep like a shadow I couldn't shake. It always started the same way: Julian stood ahead of me, shrouded in a thick, ghostly fog that seemed alive, curling and shifting around him like it wanted to pull him away. I couldn't move, couldn't call his name—my body was frozen, my voice locked somewhere deep inside me.
He never really said anything, just stared back at me with those empty, hollow eyes that didn't look like his at all. There was something wrong about his face—too pale, too distant, like he wasn't even Julian anymore. And then the ground beneath him would break open, yawning wide and swallowing him whole.
I would jolt awake every time, heart pounding, shirt plastered to my back with sweat. The darkness of the hospital room always hit first, sharp and disorienting, and for a few terrible seconds, I couldn't tell what was real. The weight in my chest didn't fade, and my breaths came shallow, like I'd been running.
Without thinking, my hand would reach out, searching blindly in the dark. My fingers would find him—Julian, lying still beside me, his skin warm and soft under my touch. But he was so still. Too still. I'd rest my hand on his chest, waiting for the steady rise and fall, and every time it came, relief would flood through me, almost knocking me over.
But it didn't erase the fear. I'd sit there, my hand on him, staring at the ceiling, the image of his lifeless gaze from the dream burned into my mind. It felt like a warning, like something was trying to tell me I could lose him, and the thought terrified me more than I wanted to admit.
I hated how the dream lingered, how it clawed its way into the edges of my waking thoughts. And yet, even in the quiet, even with Julian's breathing steady beside me, I couldn't shake the feeling that the dream wasn't done with me.
I just sat there, tracing the lines of his fingers with my thumb, committing every inch of his hand to memory like I hadn't already spent years knowing it. The small scar by his knuckle, the faint callouses from when he'd insisted on playing guitar for a week before giving it up—these tiny details felt like lifelines, proof of who he was, of who he still could be.
I let my hand trail up his arm, resting lightly on his shoulder, then his cheek. His skin was softer than I remembered, unmarked by the sun he loved so much.
I couldn't breathe.
My body ached with the weight of him, of the emptiness his silence left behind. He was right there, so close I could touch him, and yet it felt like he was slipping further and further away.
My fingers curled at my sides as I hovered over him, unsure if I was even allowed this closeness. But then I looked at him—his hair messy against the pillow, his lashes dark against his pale skin, his lips parted slightly as if he might whisper something—and I couldn't stop myself.
