Grief is strange. It settles in quietly, twisting itself around your heart, and before you know it, you're lost. That’s how it’s been for me since I lost my grandpa. I’m 22, stuck between mourning my grandpa and the dull routine of a life. My only escape is the dream world I visit at night -- one that looks like it’s been painted by Van Gogh himself. The stars are brighter, the skies swirl with color, and it feels real. Too real. It all started when I brought home this damaged book from a local author who told me to throw it away. I didn’t. Instead, I opened it, and suddenly, the world of my dreams wasn’t just in my head anymore. It was real, and so was Zeke. He’s an artist from 1916, with messy hair, deep green eyes, and a smile that made me forget the ache in my chest. We connected instantly, and he became my secret escape. Then the dreams stopped. One night, I was there with him, and the next… gone. I thought I’d lost him forever. But then, I met a stranger named Toby. He’s here, in my time, and the way he looks at me is eerily familiar. Like he knows me. Like he’s been waiting for me.

Requirements & Requests

- provide feedback - how is the pacing? - am I showing than telling? - any constructive criticism!

Comparable Stories:

The Seven Year Slip

Trigger Warnings:

grief, some curse words, denial,