I Loved Her. Then I Killed Her Dreams

The sky outside Vale was a bruise—deep purple at the horizon, bleeding into indigo, then black so dense it swallowed light whole. Clouds hung heavy, swollen with unspoken storms, and every star seemed to have been snuffed out by some cosmic hand. The night didn't end here; it just thickened, layer upon layer of silence pressing down on the world like oil.

Even the moon looked pale and afraid, hiding behind clouds as if it too feared what lingered beneath the surface of this night.

It wasn't raining. There wasn't thunder. But the air felt charged, electric—as if the atmosphere itself held its breath. Each inhale tasted of frost and ancient sorrow, carrying with it whispers of things forgotten. And somewhere beneath that hush—somewhere deeper than fog and moonlight—the earth itself waited. Waiting with bated breath. Wishing it could unsee the final flicker of life. Wishing it hadn't heard that last, faint whisper carried on the wind.

On the old dormitory balcony, its wrought-iron rail cold beneath his fingertips, Soren stood barefoot in the chill. The rough stone floor bit at his soles, each grain of sand a reminder of every step that had brought him here, every choice that had led to this unbearable moment. Arms wrapped around something warmer than flesh—Aurela.

Her body, pale as driftwood and translucent as glass, curved against his. He pressed her closer, as though volume alone could convince the world she wasn't dead—that she was still real. Her hair, silver and fine, spilled across his jacket like moonlight spilled on water, trembling with every breath of wind. She didn't shiver. She didn't breathe. But when she was, it was enough.

She had no weight to her—no human warmth, no subtle rise and fall of breath. But Soren had learned by now that love didn't require those things. Grief had taught him to hold what could not be touched, to treasure what refused to stay. So he stood there, rigid and reverent, as if he were the only thing tethering her to this plane.

Behind them, the dorm's windows glowed faintly, golden orbs in the dark. Inside, students dreamed, oblivious to the love and grief unfolding above. But Soren and Aurela were outside time. Outside life. And outside death, too—for she was neither fully here nor fully gone.

This moment stretched into something sacred: the hush of the night, the soft chant of leaves rustling, the slow exhale of two hearts entwined across the threshold of mortality.

He lowered his forehead to the top of her head, letting his lashes brush her silver strands. Each hair felt like silk between his fingertips. "I'm here," he whispered, voice rough with unshed tears. "I'm here, always."

His words lingered in the air like frost, hanging between them longer than they should have. She didn't answer—not in the way mortals would—but the silence between them crackled with meaning. Her presence was her reply.

Her head tilted, jaw slack, lips parting in a silent answer. He could almost hear her heartbeat in the silence—if only death hadn't taken the rhythm from her chest.

A breeze curled around them like a living thing, slipping through crevices in the stone walls, stirring the hem of his shirt and threading through her hair. It carried the scent of rain yet to fall, of earth turned over, of a world mourning in anticipation. The wind murmured stories older than human memory—tales of love so fierce it survived the void, of wounds that never fully healed.

Each gust that passed through felt like a whisper, a ghost pressing its lips to the back of his neck. He shivered—not from cold, but from knowing. Knowing this wasn't natural. Knowing this shouldn't be possible. And yet, knowing he would choose it again, and again, and again.

Soren inhaled deep, tasting salt and something else—something indescribable, like hope distilled through centuries of longing. He closed his eyes, letting that taste anchor him.

When he opened them again, they burned red—tears unfallen but present in every blink. He had been stoic all night, refusing to cry in case she fractured into mist. But now the ache sat heavy in his chest, each breath a shard of broken glass.

He shifted his hold, pressing his cheek to her shoulder blade. Her spine was smooth and cool beneath his touch, a fragile column of bone and memory. She weighed nothing—yet to him, she was everything.

He leaned his lips against her neck, where the pulse of her long-dead heart might have thumped. "I miss you," he murmured against her skin. The words felt inadequate, like trying to hold a hurricane in his palm. "I miss you so much it hurts."

A memory bloomed in his mind—her laughter. Not now, not here, but in another time. A warm summer day, dappled sunlight on her cheeks, her laugh like the chime of tiny silver bells. That laugh was gone now. But somehow, he could still hear its echo, folded between the walls of his soul.

Her hand lifted—slowly, reverently—to his face. Fingers colder than stone, brushing along the curve of his jaw. He felt every ridge, every dimple, as though she were mapping him by touch alone. She traced the scar that ran across his temple, a souvenir of the mirror's betrayal.

"Do you remember," she whispered, voice trembling like a moth trapped in glass, "the first time you held me here?"

He swallowed. Could she feel the memory threading through them? That night, in the abandoned chapel, she had reached for him. His arms had closed around her trembling frame, and in that moment—even then—he had pledged himself.

"I never forgot," he breathed. "Not for an instant."

The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was sacred. Her hand lingered on his cheek, cold against warm, death against life. The boundary between their worlds blurred.

She leaned into him, her breath a cold puff against his skin. He felt it flutter—the barely-there rise and fall of ribs that no longer held life. But he pretended, because in a world that forbade her to draw breath, pretending was the only way to keep her alive.

He slipped his hand beneath her blouse once more, tracing the arc of her ribs with reverence. Each rib he counted like a vow: one—pledge of protection. Two—promise of undying love. Three—oath to defy fate. Four—vow to bring her back, even if it cost him his soul.

He kept counting, even after the bones ended. Five—remembering the way she once sang in his arms. Six—how she defended him from ghosts far older than her. Seven—how she made death seem bearable. Eight—how she became the only thing that made life unbearable without her.

Time lost meaning. Seconds bled into minutes, minutes into hours. Every whispered confession, every shutter of ghostly breath, stretched into eternity.

Far below, the dorm corridors murmured with life: doors creaking, muffled laughter, the distant echo of late-night footsteps. But here, on this balcony, only two souls remained awake—the living and the dead, entwined in a love that transcended the finality of their worlds.

Aurela's eyes—hollow, yet shimmering—found his. He saw her sorrow, yes, but also her strength. The faintest twitch of her lips formed a smile. He kissed her again, gentle this time, lips brushing hers with all the tenderness he had left to give.

"Let me go," she breathed, voice barely there. "Before…"

"No," he interrupted, voice fierce. "Never."

He pressed his palm against her chest where her heart once lay, willing warmth into the cold marble beneath. "I'll burn the world down before I let you leave me."

Her head drooped, as though touched by the weight of his vow. A tear glimmered at the corner of her eye—liquid silver trailing down her cheek. He brushed it away, tasting its salt on his thumb.

"You're the only reason I stayed," she said. "But you deserve to live."

He shook his head, pressing his forehead to hers. "I don't deserve anything now, except you."

Moonlight pooled around them in a glowing halo, illuminating every tremor in her form, every quiver of his voice. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He could smell her scent: a cold sweetness, like fallen petals preserved in ice.

She leaned into him, eyes half-shut. "Stay," she whispered. "Stay with me."

He kissed her again, deeper, pressing every ounce of his love into that one motion. She kissed him back, ghost lips against mortal, a collision of worlds so intense it should have torn them apart. Instead, it bound them tighter.

He slid an arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, lifting her effortlessly. Her form was weightless, yet he cradled her as though the world might shatter if he did not.

They retreated inside, leaving behind the cold balcony. The dorm room door closed with a soft click, sealing them away from the living. The bed waited—sheets rumpled, mattress hollowed by absence. It welcomed them like an old friend.

They sank together, she settling into his arms like it was home. The bed groaned—ancient wood and springs acknowledging the intimate reunion of life and death. Curtains danced in the faint breeze, shadows flickering across the walls as if the room itself remembered their story.

In the hush that followed, Soren laid his cheek on her chest, listening for the heartbeat he knew no longer existed. Instead, he found her breath—a ghost of breath machine rhythm—and he clung to it like a lifeline.

"Tell me a story," he whispered into her hair. "One we haven't lived yet."

She lifted her head, spectral eyes glowing. "In another life," she began, voice soft as starlight, "we were dancers in a golden palace..."

She lifted her head, spectral eyes glowing. "In another life," she began, voice soft as starlight, "we were dancers in a golden palace…"

Soren closed his eyes, letting her words wrap around him like silk. Her voice, barely louder than breath, wove stories that made the cold room bloom with warmth. He saw them—bathed in candlelight, gold-threaded garments brushing polished marble floors, the sound of music ancient and beautiful in the air. A ballroom, endless and echoing, filled with laughter that had no end.

"We danced until the stars forgot how to shine," she murmured, her cheek brushing his. "Your hands were warm. My heart was full. And there was no war. No blood. No death."

"And no mirrors," Soren added, his voice tinged with longing.

She nodded slowly, her silver lashes fluttering. "Only light."

He imagined it with her. The moonlight in that world didn't haunt—it glowed. The mirrors there only reflected joy. In that life, there were no locked dorm rooms. No cold stone floors. No bruised skies. Just the two of them, spinning to music only they could hear.

"Tell me more," he whispered.

"In that world, you painted," she said, fingers trailing across his collarbone. "Your hands stained with color, not blood. I used to sneak into your studio to steal kisses, and every time I did, you'd tell me I was the only thing worth painting."

"You were," he murmured.

"We had a garden," she continued, her voice gaining shape and steadiness. "Roses taller than you. And we buried time there. Every hour we didn't want to lose, we wrote down and tucked into the soil."

He smiled faintly. "What bloomed?"

"Lilies," she said, smiling too. "And once, a tree that bore clocks instead of fruit."

A laugh escaped him, broken and soft. "Only you would grow time back from the grave."

She tilted her head, ghosting her lips across his brow. "Only you would follow me there."

The room had grown warmer somehow, like their breath had filled the space with a dream too stubborn to die. They weren't in a dorm anymore—they were in that garden, hands buried in warm soil, letting the past grow into futures they might never live.

Time slipped by unnoticed. Each word, each breath, each heartbeat—or its illusion—stitched them closer. And for once, Soren didn't feel like he was falling. He felt held.

Suddenly, the phone on the nightstand buzzed—shrill and intrusive. Reality crashed through their cocoon. A harsh reminder that the living still called this place home.

Soren flinched, body tensing around her. The sound sliced through the stillness like a scream in a cathedral.

He tightened his hold, burying his face in her hair. "Not now," he murmured.

The phone continued its mechanical cry, tearing at the veil between them. He gritted his teeth and rolled onto his back, still cradling her. With a single movement, he snatched the phone and hurled it across the room. It clattered against the wall, skittered under a dresser.

"I'd rather die," he whispered fiercely, "than let a screen define this moment."

Aurela watched him—one pale hand reaching out to touch his cheek. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and for a moment, it seemed like even death couldn't take away her ability to mourn.

"You always protect me," she said, voice thick with gratitude and sorrow.

He kissed her palm, pressing it to his lips. "I'll protect you, even from time itself."

The silence returned, but now it was charged—echoing like an unfinished song. Their breath mingled in the space between them, though hers was made of memory and his of desperation.

Soren ran a thumb along her wrist, memorizing every contour. "Promise you won't leave me," he breathed.

"I promise," she answered. And her voice broke like glass.

And still, she stayed.

They didn't speak for a while. Words weren't enough. He tucked his arms around her tighter, as if touch alone could carry all the things language couldn't hold.

Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall—soft patter on the roof, a lullaby of tears from the sky.

He buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing in her scent again and again. That cold sweetness—like memory steeped in ice and love that refused to rot.

The rain thickened, a gentle percussion on the dorm's rooftop. Thunder rolled far in the distance, low and deep, like the world clearing its throat before mourning.

They stayed like that—embraced between breaths and worlds—until the rain's rhythm lulled them into a fragile peace. And in that moment, he believed that love, even between life and death, could rewrite the rules.

Because even ghosts can be touched—and even a broken heart can find hope in the warmth of a single, enduring embrace.

And maybe, just maybe…

He wouldn't have to let her go tomorrow.