Yesterday, 10:41 PM
Colette stood in a cathedral made of pure glass.
The walls shimmered like oil on water, rippling with light that had no source, as if the building breathed. The pews were carved from bone-white marble, but when she ran her fingers across them, they felt warm. Almost... pulsing. Organ music filled the air like something playing behind a locked door.
She didn’t remember walking in. She didn’t remember why she was here. But of course she was here.
In the front row sat a man with no face. He was wearing a familiar coat. She couldn't place where she knew it, but that sharp cut at the collar, the lay of the lapel... It was Adrian's coat. The night of the masquerade. The man wearing it didn’t look at her, but she knew, in the way one just knows things in dreams, that he was waiting.
She turned to leave, but the aisle stretched.
She ran. Her footsteps echoed too long, like each step was falling into the next dream.
Her eyes snapped open.
Darkness wrapped her bedroom, and crept up the familiar ceiling. The fan blades circled with a faint hum, stuttering in that half-second delay she'd come to recognize. Her chest rose in a sharp inhale. The blanket was tangled around her legs like a net.
She sat up, wiped sweat from her brow, and searched for the time
3:42 AM.
Ugh. Again? How many times had she woken like this this week? Five nights? Six?
She rubbed her temples, vaguely aware of the dream slipping away like fog through her fingers. There had been a cathedral. Adrian’s coat. No... someone else’s coat. Maybe.
Did it matter?
Colette laid back, rolling onto her side.
Don’t think. Just rest. You need sleep.
She exhaled.
Now she was in a city where the buildings were made of stitched-together books.
Towering novels, bent spines and torn pages, stacked and bound by clamps and glue. Words bled from the margins like ink that couldn’t dry. People walked by, faceless again, but laughing like a punchline was being told in a language she couldn’t speak.
She stood in a bookstore. There was a moment of peace about it, like it was somewhere safe. But as she looked closer, she realized none of the books had titles. There were only covers, and lll the covers were of her face. A hundred faces in a hundred different angles and expressions. But all her, and in every pair of eyes looking back at her, there was something behind them. As if they were watching her back.
She turned one over.
On the back, in tiny black font, it read: “You could’ve loved him, but you didn’t.”
Her heart pounded, and a rage crept up her arms. She threw the book as hard as she could, hoping it would crash through the window and break this place apart. Instead it landed open. The pages fluttered like wings and took off into the air, shrieking.
When her alarm blared, it felt like a firework detonating inside her skull.
Colette sat up and blinked hard against the light. Her mouth tasted like cotton. Her limbs felt underwater. She padded to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. She didn’t want to see how she looked.
This time, she was underwater, but breathing fine.
Her hair floated around her head in strands like seaweed. Around her, mirrors drifted in the tide. She caught glimpses of herself, but each one was... off. Her reflection blinked slower. Smiled too long. Then, in one mirror, she glimpsed a familiar face.
It wasn't the real Adrian, but it was a dream-Adrian. He was younger and sadder. Eyes like pits filled with silver tears.
“What?” she began, but her voice came out in bubbles. The figure in the mirror reached out, caressing the glass from his side, then in a flash, all the mirrors were his face.
Colette knocked her glass of water off the table. Tumbling to the floor, it shattered.
A waiter hurried over, picking up the pieces and attending to her. Those at nearby tables fell quiet, watching. She could feel their eyes judging.
That was when she felt the wetness seep into her skin. The water had spilled all over her dress. In a hurry that nearly toppled her chair, she excused herself to the restroom.
She tried sleeping on the floor. She tried staying up. She drank coffee. She played music. She left the lights on. Still, when her head drooped forward, the dreams like a hook just beneath her ribs. Like a hand on the nape of her neck. Tugging her back, inescapable, and so real she could have sworn she was actually there.
She was at an elaborate dinner table now. Silver cutlery lined the formally laid placings. Candles dripped wax that hissed as it touched the tablecloth. The guests were laughing, but still faceless. As she entered the room, she walked past a dozen places to a seat at the head of the table.
She sat.
Food was laid before her. The most exquisite and fantastical courses she could fathom. Champagne poured endlessly, and she was the celebrated hostess of the night.
Then, as she scanned her guests, she saw Adrian seated at the opposite end, so far she couldn't hear him speaking until he stood, raising his glass and tapping it with a knife for their attention. Everyone turned to regard him, but Colette just watched in concern.
He stood a glass. “To the dreamers,” he said, toasting.
And in unison, the guests echoed “To the ones who refuse to wake."
The walls shimmered like oil on water, rippling with light that had no source, as if the building breathed. The pews were carved from bone-white marble, but when she ran her fingers across them, they felt warm. Almost... pulsing. Organ music filled the air like something playing behind a locked door.
She didn’t remember walking in. She didn’t remember why she was here. But of course she was here.
In the front row sat a man with no face. He was wearing a familiar coat. She couldn't place where she knew it, but that sharp cut at the collar, the lay of the lapel... It was Adrian's coat. The night of the masquerade. The man wearing it didn’t look at her, but she knew, in the way one just knows things in dreams, that he was waiting.
She turned to leave, but the aisle stretched.
She ran. Her footsteps echoed too long, like each step was falling into the next dream.
Her eyes snapped open.
Darkness wrapped her bedroom, and crept up the familiar ceiling. The fan blades circled with a faint hum, stuttering in that half-second delay she'd come to recognize. Her chest rose in a sharp inhale. The blanket was tangled around her legs like a net.
She sat up, wiped sweat from her brow, and searched for the time
3:42 AM.
Ugh. Again? How many times had she woken like this this week? Five nights? Six?
She rubbed her temples, vaguely aware of the dream slipping away like fog through her fingers. There had been a cathedral. Adrian’s coat. No... someone else’s coat. Maybe.
Did it matter?
Colette laid back, rolling onto her side.
Don’t think. Just rest. You need sleep.
She exhaled.
Now she was in a city where the buildings were made of stitched-together books.
Towering novels, bent spines and torn pages, stacked and bound by clamps and glue. Words bled from the margins like ink that couldn’t dry. People walked by, faceless again, but laughing like a punchline was being told in a language she couldn’t speak.
She stood in a bookstore. There was a moment of peace about it, like it was somewhere safe. But as she looked closer, she realized none of the books had titles. There were only covers, and lll the covers were of her face. A hundred faces in a hundred different angles and expressions. But all her, and in every pair of eyes looking back at her, there was something behind them. As if they were watching her back.
She turned one over.
On the back, in tiny black font, it read: “You could’ve loved him, but you didn’t.”
Her heart pounded, and a rage crept up her arms. She threw the book as hard as she could, hoping it would crash through the window and break this place apart. Instead it landed open. The pages fluttered like wings and took off into the air, shrieking.
When her alarm blared, it felt like a firework detonating inside her skull.
Colette sat up and blinked hard against the light. Her mouth tasted like cotton. Her limbs felt underwater. She padded to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. She didn’t want to see how she looked.
This time, she was underwater, but breathing fine.
Her hair floated around her head in strands like seaweed. Around her, mirrors drifted in the tide. She caught glimpses of herself, but each one was... off. Her reflection blinked slower. Smiled too long. Then, in one mirror, she glimpsed a familiar face.
It wasn't the real Adrian, but it was a dream-Adrian. He was younger and sadder. Eyes like pits filled with silver tears.
“What?” she began, but her voice came out in bubbles. The figure in the mirror reached out, caressing the glass from his side, then in a flash, all the mirrors were his face.
Colette knocked her glass of water off the table. Tumbling to the floor, it shattered.
A waiter hurried over, picking up the pieces and attending to her. Those at nearby tables fell quiet, watching. She could feel their eyes judging.
That was when she felt the wetness seep into her skin. The water had spilled all over her dress. In a hurry that nearly toppled her chair, she excused herself to the restroom.
She tried sleeping on the floor. She tried staying up. She drank coffee. She played music. She left the lights on. Still, when her head drooped forward, the dreams like a hook just beneath her ribs. Like a hand on the nape of her neck. Tugging her back, inescapable, and so real she could have sworn she was actually there.
She was at an elaborate dinner table now. Silver cutlery lined the formally laid placings. Candles dripped wax that hissed as it touched the tablecloth. The guests were laughing, but still faceless. As she entered the room, she walked past a dozen places to a seat at the head of the table.
She sat.
Food was laid before her. The most exquisite and fantastical courses she could fathom. Champagne poured endlessly, and she was the celebrated hostess of the night.
Then, as she scanned her guests, she saw Adrian seated at the opposite end, so far she couldn't hear him speaking until he stood, raising his glass and tapping it with a knife for their attention. Everyone turned to regard him, but Colette just watched in concern.
He stood a glass. “To the dreamers,” he said, toasting.
And in unison, the guests echoed “To the ones who refuse to wake."
![[Image: Colette-signature-rainbow.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/05/Colette-signature-rainbow.png)