The world was as it always is—chaotic and colorful, filled with noise, movement, and the relentless rush of life. But I wandered too far. I turned a corner, and suddenly, everything changed.

The colors bled away, draining into nothingness. The noise collapsed into silence. I found myself standing in an endless expanse of sharp white, tinged with the faintest hue of blue—my favorite color. It wasn’t cold, nor was it warm. It was simply still.
And then I saw him.

He sat on a dark brown-red couch, the only piece of furniture in this vast emptiness, beneath a single painting that seemed to exist without meaning. He wasn’t funny or charming in the usual ways. He wasn’t just beautiful in the way people often describe beauty. He was achingly beautiful—the kind of beauty that wasn’t just in his face, but in his existence. There was something fragile about him, something that pulled at me, quiet and insistent, like a memory I had never lived but had always carried.

His hair was soft, brown, just messy enough to seem untouched. His eyes—icy and sorrowful—held the weight of something unspoken. He had no family. No friends. No past. He simply was.
And yet, when he looked at me, I knew him. Knew him the way I knew the feeling of my own heartbeat.

I sat beside him, and time folded in on itself. His voice, when he finally spoke, was both protective and delicate, like a whisper meant only for me. He told me things I had never heard but had always known. That I was beloved. That I was special. That I was his.

When he touched me, it was with infinite care, as if I were something breakable. And when he cried, he did so silently, his tears slipping into my hands as if they had always belonged there.
When he embraced me, it was unlike anything I had ever known. It was recognition. Heart to heart. Soul to soul. A quiet, overwhelming understanding. As if he had been waiting for me. As if I had been waiting for him. As if I were the missing piece in the vast white world he had lived in for so long.

I couldn’t leave him there. I wouldn’t.

So I took his hand and led him back into the world—the chaos of color and sound. But the moment he stepped into it, everything softened. The noise dulled, the rush slowed. And in that moment, it was just us.

His presence quieted the world, like a torch against the darkness, a steady glow in the storm. And then I saw it—the faintest aura around him, bluish-white, as if the empty space he had come from still clung to him.

I held onto him, afraid he would disappear, afraid he would slip away like all dreams eventually do.

But then, he looked at me.

And for the first time, in the depths of his sorrow, I saw something new. Hope.
And then I woke up.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my heart aching in a way I had no words for. I tried to hold onto his face, but the harder I reached for it, the blurrier it became. But that was the thing—it wasn’t about what he looked like. It was about what he was. What he meant.

Now, I walk through the world with a quiet longing, an ache I can’t place. Because somewhere, I know he is out there. Maybe in another city. Maybe in another time.
But I will know him when I see him.

Because I already have.
And when I do, I will not let him go.