Darkness. Complete, suffocating, absurd darkness. Like the kind of darkness that had the audacity to make her question the very concept of light. She had always thought dreams were weird-full of floating elevators, talking dogs, and professors reciting algebraic equations in reverse-but this was different. This was dark. Darker than her last attempt at midnight chocolate mousse, darker than the existential void that followed forgetting her homework, darker than... well, her skin tone.
Her first thought: Great. I'm dead.
Her second thought: Or maybe I'm dreaming. Yeah, definitely dreaming. This is one of those stupidly vivid dreams.
Zara wiggled her fingers experimentally. Solid. Alive. Still had a pulse. And her third thought immediately followed: Thank God, because dying before my 21st birthday would be extremely inconvenient.
She debated, as one does when lying in impenetrable darkness, whether to scream, cry, or invent a coffee-fueled motivational speech to herself. Before she could commit to a plan, the universe decided to escalate the situation.
A sudden rip-something cold and harsh was yanked off her head. Blinding light crashed into her face like an uninvited disco ball. She squinted wildly, cursing under her breath. "Bastards. Seriously, bastards. Is this an angel light? What the hell are angels doing attacking me like this?"
Her eyes struggled, fluttered, and protested violently as the world transformed from absolute darkness into a fluorescent nightmare. And as if the universe hadn't done enough, it added insult to injury: a bucket of water slammed onto her head with an obnoxious splat.
"The fuck!" Zara shrieked, jumping upright, water dripping down her face and pooling around her. It stung. Not gently. Not like a "wake up and you're a little wet" sting. No, it was the kind of sting that felt like her internal organs had signed a petition against this treatment. She cried out in a mix of pain, indignation, and dramatic flair. "Who even thinks of this?! Who!?"
Blinking through the watery chaos, she saw them: men in black suits standing in rigid formation, looking as bored and terrifying as if they were auditioning for a role in a movie called "Men in Black: The Interrogation Chapter." Somewhere in the shadows, she caught the unmistakable glint of clean, polished leather shoes. A man sat there, a looming presence whose face remained a mystery. Zara's first instinct? Run. Hide. Punch someone in the face.
Her second instinct: Maybe I'll just close my eyes and pretend this is a very elaborate nap.
Before she could settle on either strategy, she was yanked back violently. Her arms flailed, legs kicking, and her scream turned into a startled gasp.
And then she saw her.
Emerald eyes so vibrant they could probably power a small city. Wet, dripping hair clinging to a delicate face that made Zara's pulse do something indecent. Small hands, trembling but strong, were clutching her protectively, pulling her close like some sort of desperate guardian angel.
Zara froze. Literally froze. Her brain short-circuited. Oh. My. God.
She hadn't realized it before. Not consciously. Not seriously. Not until this precise, chaotic, soaked moment. But... she might be... bi? Maybe? Possibly? Definitely?
The girl's arms encircled her, holding her close despite the absurd situation. And here's the thing: Zara didn't care.
"I'm dreaming, right?" she whispered into the soft scent of rain-soaked hair. "This is a dream. Yes. Definitely a dream. No one just... spontaneously saves me like this in real life. Not with these ridiculous emerald eyes, no way. Totally dreaming."
Her head rested lightly against the girl's shoulder, soaking wet and soaked in disbelief. "You know what? Dreams are weird. Dreams are weird and hilarious and kind of perfect. I might as well enjoy this. Might as well... lay here and admire your face while I exist in chaos."
The girl didn't respond immediately, just held her tighter, a shivering, protective weight that somehow made Zara's chest feel too small. Her thoughts started racing like a caffeinated squirrel. Okay, okay, calm down. Breathe. You are literally lying in a dream on top of a stunning, drenched girl. Nothing is wrong. Everything is amazing. And your life choices have somehow led to this.
Zara tilted her head, studying her closely. Hair plastered to her forehead, clothing sticking uncomfortably to her skin. Wet mascara streaks cutting across pale cheeks. The girl looked fragile, yes, but also determined. Protective. Fierce in that way that made Zara's heart jump. And then, inevitably, ridiculously, a mischievous thought entered her mind: I might as well flirt. Because this is a dream, and who's going to stop me? The water demons? The men in suits? Ha.
"I mean," Zara murmured, tilting her head flirtatiously, "if this is a dream, you should know you're, uh... very effective at holding people. Excellent technique. Ten out of ten. Would be impressed in a real-life scenario too, but... let's not overthink it. Dream logic, am I right?"
The girl sniffled, pulling her slightly closer. Zara blinked. "She's crying. Wait, why is she crying? And why am I laughing about it? Oh, universe. You're really testing me. This is absurd."
And it was. Everything about the situation was absurd. Two drenched girls in a mysterious dark place, men in suits lurking silently, a shadowed figure seated with legs crossed, and Zara Johnson lying against a girl who might just be too beautiful to be real.
Zara's humor kicked in, as it always did when her brain threatened to implode. Well, at least if I die in my dream, I die looking at a pretty girl. Which is... not the worst way to go. Honestly, probably a dream improvement over previous death scenarios. Yes, this works. I approve.
She shifted slightly, careful not to slip. "Hey," she whispered, nudging the girl lightly, "so... we're friends now, right? Because, you know... team-up situation. Dream alliance. I fight your water-splashers; you, uh... continue being stunning. Deal?"
The girl didn't respond verbally, but tightened her hold, and Zara decided that counted as a yes.
Meanwhile, the men in suits remained statuesque, ominous, terrifying, and completely oblivious to the internal romantic comedy unfolding just inches away from them. Zara took a deep breath, tilting her head back to watch the shadowy figure's shoes. Leather, perfect, gleaming. Who wears shoes like that and isn't secretly a villain in a spy movie? she wondered. Her inner monologue had officially gone rogue.
"Okay," she whispered to herself, "Zara, this is a dream. Enjoy it. Laugh at the absurdity. Maybe flirt a little. Definitely flirt a lot. And for the love of coffee, do not get soaked again."
She yawned dramatically, lying fully against the girl, who still held her protectively. "Honestly," Zara continued, voice low and conspiratorial, "if anyone asks later, we were, uh... practicing synchronized swimming. Yeah, that makes sense. Totally normal dream. No one will question it."
Minutes passed. Or hours. Or maybe three seconds. Time in dreams had a weird way of being both infinite and nonexistent. Zara didn't care. She was warm, dryish-ish in spirit, and improbably happy, nestled against this beautiful stranger.
She leaned up just slightly, whispering against the damp hair. "You have no idea how much this is saving my day. Or ruining it. Probably both. But mostly... saving. Definitely saving."
The girl sighed softly. Zara smiled to herself, feeling absurdly victorious. Dreams do indeed open closed closets, she thought, wiggling her eyebrows at the absurdity of her own revelation. And apparently also my heart.
As the sound of the men in suits faded slightly into the background, and the shadowed figure remained silent, Zara closed her eyes again. If this is a dream, it's a good one. Maybe the best one yet. Definitely better than that nightmare where I was late for all my classes and my coffee betrayed me. Oh, dream universe, you're chaotic and terrible, and I love you anyway.
Nestled against the girl, Zara drifted i
nto the strange, absurdly delightful comfort of the unknown.
---