The sand was warm beneath his bare feet.
Yunar watched the horizon where the sky melted into the sea in shades of orange and pink. The wind carried the salty scent of the waves, and each breath seemed to fill his lungs with something beyond air — a sense of wholeness he couldn't name.
She stood beside him.
White hair rippled softly in the breeze, contrasting with her pale skin. Her face held that serene beauty that made the world around it slow down. She wasn't looking at him, but at the small figure racing along the water's edge, laughing as she chased the retreating waves.
"Daddy!" The clear, high-pitched voice cut through the air. "Come play with me! I'm waiting, Daddy!"
The six-year-old waved with both hands, her white dress swaying with the motion. There was something in her smile — genuine, radiant, unconditional — that squeezed something deep inside Yunar's chest.
A smile touched his lips. "Of course. I'm coming."
He took the first step.
And then his body trembled.
Not an ordinary tremor. It was as though every cell in his being had been struck by an invisible wave of pressure. His heart lurched — thump, thump, thump — beating against his ribs with enough force to hurt. The air grew dense, heavy, almost solid.
*"See reality."*
The voice pierced his mind like a cold blade. It was deep, weighted with age and authority. It didn't come from outside, but from within — from somewhere deep that he hadn't known existed.
A voice he had never heard before.
At least, not in this reality.
The sky cracked. The sand disintegrated beneath his feet. The girl, the woman, the sea — everything shattered into fragments of light that vanished into the void.
And Yunar woke up.
---
He sat up sharply in bed, body tense, breathing ragged. His hands gripped the sheets as the last traces of the dream dissolved in his mind like mist in sunlight.
And then came what always came.
Tears.
They fell from his eyes without permission, warm and relentless, tracing familiar paths down his cheeks. Yunar didn't sob. He didn't shake. The tears simply fell, as though his body were carrying out an automatic function — breathe, blink, cry.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand, knowing it was useless. More would come. They always did.
The grey morning light filtered through the half-open curtains. Everything was in its place — the cluttered desk, the stack of books beside the bed, the wardrobe with its door slightly ajar. Everything real. Everything solid.
So why did it feel so empty?
That smile. That voice calling *"Daddy."*
Yunar squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold onto the fragments of the dream before they vanished completely. But the harder he tried, the more they slipped through his mental fingers like water.
The door opened without ceremony.
"How long are you going to lie in bed?"
Mrs. Wan's voice wasn't harsh, but it carried that practical tone of someone who had repeated the same line many times. She stood in the doorway wearing an apron tied at the waist, silver hair pinned in a loose bun. The same hair as his.
"Your psychiatrist is waiting for you in the living room."
Yunar blinked, processing the words. "Already?"
"Already." She crossed her arms, and for a moment her gaze softened at the sight of the tears on her son's face. But she said nothing. She never did anymore. "He arrived fifteen minutes ago. I made tea."
Yunar wiped his face again and climbed out of bed, his feet meeting the cold floor. "I'll be right there."
His mother nodded and disappeared down the hallway. Yunar stood still for a moment, staring at his blurred reflection in the wardrobe mirror.
Silver hair, disheveled. Red eyes. Pale face.
Twenty-five years old, but carrying the weariness of an entire lifetime.
---
The living room smelled of chamomile tea.
The psychiatrist — Dr. Hayashi — sat on the two-seater sofa, browsing something on his tablet. He was a middle-aged man with thin-framed glasses and a relaxed posture that contrasted with the seriousness of his sessions. When Yunar walked in, he looked up and offered a polite smile.
"Good morning, Yunar."
"Good morning, Doctor."
Yunar sat in the armchair across from him, holding an old notebook he'd grabbed from his desk. The pages were yellowed at the edges, and the synthetic leather cover was worn from use.
Or from the lack of it. Yunar didn't remember using it that much.
Dr. Hayashi set the tablet aside and adjusted his glasses. "How are you feeling today?"
"It's still happening." The answer came automatically.
"And what did you experience this time?"
Yunar hesitated. How do you explain something that felt so vivid, yet so distant? "It's always the same dream. A loop of love and happiness." He paused, choosing his words. "And a voice that keeps warning me it's only a dream."
Dr. Hayashi tilted his head slightly. "Have you ever seen the faces of these people in the real world? Among the people around you?"
"No. Never."
"And the voice?"
"Neither." Yunar pressed the notebook against his chest. "But... there's something else."
He held the notebook out. In that moment, more tears fell — a few landing on the cover before sliding off and dripping onto the wooden floor.
Dr. Hayashi noticed, but didn't comment right away. Instead, he took the notebook carefully. "You still can't control the tears?"
Yunar wiped his face again, frustration pulsing quietly in his voice. "Not yet. They fall at any moment. I can't stop them."
The psychiatrist opened the notebook, adjusting his glasses as his eyes moved across the pages. He stopped. Frowned slightly. Turned the page. Stopped again.
*"You cannot escape love. You are living an illusion. Wake up."*
Dr. Hayashi read aloud, slowly, as though testing the weight of each word. Then he turned to the next marked page.
*"Find me. It's the only way."*
Silence.
The ticking of the wall clock filled the space between them. Yunar watched the doctor's expression, trying to read what he was thinking.
Finally, Dr. Hayashi looked up. "Are you certain you wrote this?"
"Of course. I think so." The uncertainty in his own voice unsettled him.
The psychiatrist closed the notebook slowly and handed it back. "I've seen quite a bit of your handwriting over the years, Yunar. Reports, notes, therapeutic exercises." He paused, letting the weight of what came next hang in the air. "And this looks nothing like yours."
The words hit Yunar like a silent blow.
He looked down at the notebook in his hands. The yellowed pages. The black ink. The letters that seemed like his, and yet... didn't.
"Then who wrote it?"
Dr. Hayashi didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, fingers interlaced. "That is the question, isn't it?" He removed his glasses and cleaned them with a cloth. "Yunar, have you ever considered the possibility of automatic writing? During sleep, or in altered states of consciousness?"
"I... don't know."
"Let's keep this notebook under observation. If new messages appear, tell me right away." Dr. Hayashi put his glasses back on. "And the dreams — are they changing? Evolving in any way?"
Yunar thought about the girl calling *"Daddy."* The woman at his side. The sense of belonging he had never felt while awake.
"No. They're always the same."
He lied. And he didn't know why.
---
The session ended shortly after.
Yunar tucked the notebook into his backpack while Dr. Hayashi said goodbye to Mrs. Wan at the door. She offered more tea, but the doctor politely declined, mentioning another appointment.
When the door closed, his mother turned to Yunar. For a moment, it looked like she might say something — perhaps ask about the session, or mention the tears still marking his face. But she only sighed and returned to the kitchen.
Yunar went upstairs. He changed out of his black sleep shirt into a clean one, tamed the silver hair that insisted on going its own way, and picked up his school uniform. Mechanical movements. Routine.
When he came back down, the house was quiet. His mother was probably out back, tending to the small garden she kept with such care.
He left without saying goodbye.
The door clicked shut softly behind him.
The sky was overcast, heavy with the promise of rain. The air carried that damp scent that comes before a storm. Yunar adjusted his backpack straps and started walking.
The neighborhood was quiet at this hour. A few mothers dropping off small children at daycare, elderly residents sweeping sidewalks, delivery workers rushing past on bicycles. Life happening all around him.
Yunar wiped more tears away.
*"This looks nothing like your handwriting."*
Dr. Hayashi's words echoed in his mind. If he hadn't written those messages, then who had? And how could someone have accessed his notebook, his room, without leaving a trace?
*"Find me. It's the only way."*
Find who? The woman from the dream? The child? The mysterious voice?
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He needed to focus. He had classes. Exams. A real life to live, even if it felt increasingly... faded.
The path to school was all too familiar.
Yunar walked with his hands in his pockets, the notebook inside his backpack. The sky was overcast, threatening rain. The streets were busy with students and hurried commuters, but he barely noticed.
His mind was still back in the session.
*"This looks nothing like your handwriting."*
The tears kept coming. He wiped them away mechanically every few steps, already used to the curious glances from strangers.
The school gate came into view. Teenagers talked in clusters, laughing and scrolling through their phones. Yunar took a deep breath and walked in.
"Look who it is. The crybaby's here."
The voice came from the left. A group of boys leaning against the wall, all wearing that air of superiority typical of people who have never experienced something they couldn't explain.
"Dude, you're already crying? It's not even eight in the morning."
Laughter.
Yunar kept his gaze forward and kept walking. It wasn't worth it. It never was.
"Hey, Yunar!"
That voice he recognized.
Eren appeared at his side out of nowhere, as he always did. Messy brown hair, easy smile, infectious energy. His only friend since childhood.
"Don't mind them." Eren waved vaguely at the group behind them. "One day those idiots will figure out that having empathy isn't a weakness."
"It doesn't bother me." Yunar wiped more tears away.
"Sure it doesn't." Eren rolled his eyes, but his tone was warm. He studied his friend's face. "You look worse today. Another dream?"
"Always another dream."
"Damn." Eren scratched the back of his neck. "Well, at least you've got something to look forward to today."
Yunar frowned. "I do?"
"Come on, you forgot? You were going to call Alya today!" Eren gave him a light shove on the shoulder. "You finally gonna work up the nerve to ask her out?"
The name echoed in his mind.
*Alya.*
Brown hair. Gentle smile. The girl who had always treated him like a normal person, even when everyone else pointed and whispered.
Yunar felt something tighten in his chest. Different from the pressure in the dreams. Something lighter. More... real?
"I don't know if she'd want someone like me."
"Someone like you?" Eren stopped walking and turned to face him. "Dude, you're smart, kind, and you're always there for people. If she doesn't give you a chance, that's her loss." He pointed to his own chest. "And I, as your best friend, hereby officially declare that you WILL call her today. No excuses."
Yunar couldn't help a small smile. "You're impossible."
"Yes. That's why you love me."
The bell rang, and the flow of students began moving toward the buildings. Eren waved and headed to his classroom, leaving Yunar standing there for a moment.
He looked up at the overcast sky.
*Alya.*
Maybe Eren was right. Maybe it was time to try something real. Something that
wouldn't disappear when a mysterious voice told him to wake up.
More tears fell.
But this time, Yunar didn't know if they were for the people in the dream.
Or for the fear that reality could never compare to them.
---
*END OF CHAPTER 1*