Second floor. Same white door. White like toothpaste. Or existential dread. It stared him down like a blank test paper.

Denver took a breath. Full inhale. Slow exhale.

Calm. Smooth as a jazz solo and just as practiced. The guy had the emotional volatility of a houseplant. Parking ticket? No problem. Dog piss on suede shoes? Smile, wipe, pretend the stench is character building. Hurricane? Mild annoyance, mostly because the Wi-Fi cuts out.

And that—yep—that was the issue.

Ann hated it. Hated the quiet in the kitchen, long silences buttered over toast like some kind of passive-aggressive spread. Hated the way he stared into nothing, blue eyes full of thoughts he didn't share. Hated waking up next to a man who smelled like someone else's dream.

Not a metaphor.

Actual dream-scent. Warm skin. Clean sweat. Hair that wasn't hers brushing his cheek in a bed that very much was.

He told himself it was brain static—nerves. The frontal lobe finally clicking into its post-25 maturity like—congrats! now you're boring and existentially aware! Stress, wedding prep hell, maybe lowkey iron deficiency? That sorta shit.

And yet—

Every night since the proposal: her. A stranger-who-wasn't. Couldn't see her face—never saw her face—but God, he could feel her. Deep under his skin, like music stuck in his bone marrow.

He knew when she laughed. Felt the rush of it like soda bubbles in his chest. Knew when she was sad—would just freeze mid-excel-sheet and get hit with a sucker punch of sudden grief, no source, just bam —there it was, like secondhand heartbreak.

Started happening during the day too. Random hunger pangs right after lunch? "Did you skip again?" he'd mutter under his breath to nobody, smiling like he had an imaginary friend in his pocket.

It should've scared him. Instead, it soothed him.

Like having someone secret and close. Like maybe some part of him wasn't totally alone—even if everything else felt like it was turning grey around the edges.

Still, Ann deserved more than a fiancé who went starry-eyed over sleep apparitions. So he signed up for therapy. Group sessions first, then solo stuff later if he didn't implode.

And now he stood here, rumpled shirt still soggy with office sweat, spinal column crying after a full day of ergonomic betrayal, and stared at this stupid white door.

Please don't make me say weird shit out loud, he prayed as he pushed it open.

Click.

Beige room. Beige walls. Beige chairs in a circle like summoning the spirit of collective trauma via IKEA.

Okay then.

There were people already inside. One woman in tattered layers that screamed "I thrift ironically," breathing like her lungs were being held hostage. A guy with cheeks redder than boiled beets and a gut that did not respect chair boundaries. Another guy sitting hunched like a comma, gnawing on his own nails.

Do I look like this to people?

Too late to bolt. Someone was already smiling at him—probably the therapist—and motioning like come in sweetie, spill your soul with us in a sanitary circle.

And then— That sound. So subtle he thought he imagined it at first. A soft shift in the air. Like citrus peel snapped between fingers. Peach fuzz brushed against memory. His whole spine vibrated like a tuning fork struck too hard.

He froze. Turned his head slowly—

There it was again. Barely-there echo under the fluorescent lighting buzz—the sensory ghost of those dreams.

His breath caught. His knees? Jelly-fied. Then— there you are! The name sliced through him like hot iron through butter. Snap went something in his chest. Heart thudding now—no, hammering—he turned toward the voice like it had hooked him by the neck and yanked.

There she was. Not dream-fogged now. Whole body in focus. Realer than real—like everything else he'd lived had been a VHS tape and someone just switched to 4K Ultra HD with haptics enabled.

His mouth opened before his brain could put words in line. "Is it you...?"

Mind already throwing self-insults—You moron, you absolute lunatic, but none of it mattered because something inside him leaned toward her like tide to moon.

He took one shaky step forward—

And nothing would ever be beige again.