Zen's morning classes were chaos—
Which meant everything was perfectly normal.
He crossed campus with Alex, tossing a muffin back and forth because neither of them actually wanted to eat it.
"Dude, eat it before it becomes a weapon," Alex said.
Zen caught it dramatically.
"I refuse. My stomach deserves better. Real ingredients. Ingredients that don't smell like betrayal."
"It's blueberry."
"It's lies disguised as blueberry."
Alex sighed. "You woke up dramatic."
Zen grinned. "I woke up alive. Drama comes free with the package."
They reached the art building, sunlight warming Zen's back. He stretched, rolling his shoulders.
"You good?" Alex asked.
Zen nodded. "Yeah. Just tired."
"Tired or… dream tired?"
Zen's smile softened, just a fraction.
"Dream tired."
Alex didn't push. He never did.
Zen had always been described as bright.
Not loud.
Not overwhelming.
Just… bright.
The kind of person who walked into a room and made it feel less heavy, as if the air itself relaxed around him. Zen never questioned it. Smiling was easier than explaining. Warmth was simpler than distance.
And today, he needed that simplicity more than ever.
Zen stood under the stage lights, script folded in his hand, listening as the instructor adjusted the scene. Around him, students murmured lines, paced nervously, stretched their limbs.
This was familiar territory.
Safe territory.
"Places," the instructor called.
Zen stepped forward, posture loose, expression open. The moment the cue came, he slipped into character effortlessly.
His voice found its rhythm.
His body followed.
The room faded.
Until it didn't.
The air shifted.
Salt burned faintly at the back of his throat.
Zen's next line caught midway.
For a heartbeat, the wooden floor beneath his feet turned cold and uneven. Wind rushed too close to his ears. The echo of waves overlapped the instructor's voice.
No—
Zen blinked hard.
The shoreline flashed behind his eyes—grey sky, restless water, a presence standing too near to see.
His chest tightened.
"Zen."
The instructor's voice snapped him back.
"Cut."
Silence followed.
Zen realized he hadn't spoken.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, the smile already in place. "Lost my footing for a second."
A few students laughed awkwardly.
The instructor watched him longer than necessary. "Get some air."
Zen nodded and stepped off the stage.
His hands shook when no one was looking.
Outside, the afternoon sun felt too bright.
Zen sat on the steps, elbows on his knees, staring at the concrete as if it might steady him. His heartbeat slowed gradually, but the sensation lingered.
The dreams had never crossed this line before.
They stayed in sleep.
They obeyed distance.
This—
This felt like something reaching for him.
Zen flexed his fingers.
They remembered holding someone.
The thought came uninvited.
"Zen?"
He looked up.
Liya stood a few steps away, sunlight catching in her hair. She hesitated before sitting beside him, careful not to intrude.
"You disappeared," she said gently.
Zen chuckled, light and automatic. "Guess the stage didn't like me today."
She didn't smile back.
"You looked like you were somewhere else."
Zen tilted his head. "Is that bad for an actor?"
Her gaze lingered on him—not curious, not judgmental.
Concerned.
"For a moment," she said slowly, "it felt like you were leaving."
The words struck deeper than he expected.
Zen exhaled. "I'm not going anywhere."
He believed that.
Mostly.
They sat in silence for a while.
Strangely, the unease eased.
Not because it vanished—but because it softened.
Liya's presence grounded him in a way he didn't understand. Not excitement. Not attraction.
Familiarity.
It made him uncomfortable.
Zen didn't like things he couldn't name.
When she finally stood to leave, she paused. "Take care of yourself, Zen."
He smiled again. "Always do."
After she left, the smile lingered longer than it should have.
Then it faded.
Zen stared ahead, the rehearsal hall doors reflecting the late afternoon sun.
If the dreams were learning how to follow him into the day—
Then pretending everything was fine might no longer be enough.
He rose slowly, script tucked under his arm.
Tomorrow mattered.
His future mattered.
Whatever this fracture was—
He would deal with it later.
Zen walked back inside, unaware that elsewhere in the city, a man with a carefully ordered life had just paused mid-step, unsettled by a pressure he could not explain.
Something old was stirring.
And the light was no longer untouched.