Every night for the past two weeks has been an endurance test. Fourteen days of dead air, dark territory, and a cell phone that sits cold, dark, and useless on the bedside table.
I’m floating in that hazy, heavy borderland between deep sleep and waking consciousness, wrapped in a sleep so profound it feels like drowning in warm, dark water. My body is exhausted, worn down by days of worry, skipped meals, and the constant, thrumming adrenaline of waiting for a phone call that never comes.
And then the dream takes shape.
It doesn’t start with a place or a time; it starts with his scent. That deep, unmistakable mix of heavy leather, smoky air, and the sharp, dark spice of his skin… a scent that now lives in my lungs, is now etched into my very DNA.
In the dream, I’m standing at the edge
