It was happening again.
He wasn't dreaming—
but he wasn't fully awake, either.
The rehearsal studio buzzed with soft chatter and footsteps, the rhythm of voices moving in and out of focus.
Music played low from the speakers in the corner, half-muted by the weight of exhaustion settling across his shoulders.
Bang Chan sat against the mirror wall, head leaned back, water bottle untouched by his side.
His body was here.
But his mind?
His mind was still wrapped in silver rain and soft voices.
Still walking cobblestone streets under lanterns that didn't exist.
Still remembering the way your hand felt when it closed around his in the dream.
He stared at the floor, unfocused.
The world blurred.
And then—
He said it.
"Your name."
Out loud.
Softly.
Barely more than a breath.
But enough.
The room hushed.
Someone looked over.
Someone else paused mid-step.
Chan blinked, the sound of your name still lingering in the air between them like an echo that didn't belong in the daylight.
"What'd you say?" one of the members asked casually, spinning a water bottle in his hand.
Chan's eyes widened a fraction.
He sat up straighter. Cleared his throat.
"Nothing," he lied too quickly. "Just... thinking out loud."
He laughed it off.
Shrugged.
Rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
But his pulse was racing.
Because the name —
your name —
hadn't been made up.
He knew it.
He felt it.
And worse than that?
It felt like he'd known it forever.
⸻
Later that night, he stared at the ceiling of his room, your name still burning at the back of his throat.
"Who are you?"
He whispered it to the shadows.
To the ceiling.
To the space between dreams.
No one answered.
But something inside him shifted.
Like the dream had stepped closer.
Like your name wasn't just a word now.
It was a thread.
And he had just pulled it.
⸻
Second-Person Echo:
You were sitting by your window when it happened.
You didn't hear your name spoken — not really.
But you felt something.
A pull.
A sudden heat in your chest.
The strange, wild sense that someone had just whispered your name into the wind.
You looked up at the sky.
And smiled.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The dream began without sound.
No footsteps.
No breeze.
No heartbeat.
Just light.
A slow, golden glow rising over the edge of a city that couldn't possibly exist —
its skyline dipped in starlight, its buildings curved like petals and crowned in lanterns that floated without strings.
Bang Chan stood at the edge of it, barefoot on soft stone that shimmered with constellations underfoot.
The air smelled like something forgotten — like memories that never happened, like lullabies no one had written down.
And then—
you were beside him.
You didn't appear with a flash.
You were just there.
As if you had always been there.
As if he had turned and found you waiting, hand already reaching for his.
You didn't speak.
You didn't need to.
He laced his fingers through yours, and the city exhaled.
A thousand floating lanterns flickered to life overhead.
The sky shimmered with soft color — rose gold, violet-blue, quiet firelight yellow.
The stars blinked like they were watching.
He looked at you and said—
"This place isn't real."
You turned to him and smiled — soft, sad, beautiful.
"But it's ours."
And that was enough.
⸻
You wandered through the city hand in hand.
You passed quiet courtyards filled with flowers that sang without words.
You stepped across bridges made of glass and fog.
You traced your fingers along the glowing walls of a house that hadn't existed until you imagined it together.
Everywhere you went — the world followed.
Bending.
Becoming.
Alive only because you were there together.
⸻
Eventually, you sat on a rooftop, legs dangling into the stars.
No traffic. No crowds.
Just silence.
And each other.
He looked over at you —
really looked.
And he didn't feel confused.
Or lost.
He felt... found.
Like he'd been building toward this moment since the first time he saw your smile in the crowd.
Like he'd been made with this dream hidden inside him.
You rested your head on his shoulder.
"Do you think we ever lived here?" you whispered.
"I don't know," he said. "But I think we never left."
You both laughed — quiet, tender, aching.
Because in that moment, it didn't matter where the dream ended.
This was the place you returned to.
Not because it was real.
Because it was yours.
⸻
Second-Person Echo:
When you woke, you felt your hand twitch —
like it had just let go of something warm.
You looked out your window,
and for the first time in a long time,
you didn't feel like you were waiting anymore.
You felt like you were remembering.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆