It had gotten to the point he really didn't find it uncommon anymore. The Dream, that is. The odd star-shaped land mass surrounded by water, the visions of the white-haired man with the intense eyes that both frightened and inspired him, the feeling of a duty forgotten, a promise broken, and this strange idea that he was always meant for more than this world seemed to think he was.
He painted his dreams. He knew it was a little silly; in the end dreams are only dreams, never intended to mean anything more than the occasional manifestation of subconscious thought and, more likely, of what he had for dinner that night. And yet, despite his better judgment, he listens to that little voice in the back of his mind that insists that there is more to it.
It's the part that also makes him ask where he went for all those years and why he just can't remember it anymore. It's the part of him that tells him there is no way he could have made up the white-haired man in his dreams—no dream could be that intense. Dreams fade when you wake up, but the man… The face of that man, the feel of him, the lack of his presence by his side, all of that was just too real. Too real to ignore and too real to accept.
And there was more. He knew there was more…. But… for some reason he couldn't remember.
That's why he painted.
And until today no one had recognized the paintings to be anything more than a talented hand and a creative mind. Until today, the land mass from his dreams was just a painted dream. Until today, he could push the voice aside just enough to tell himself that it was all just a silly indulgence. And then she had to ask him about it. She had to tell him she was spirited away too. She had to tell him that she had the same dreams too—no, that they weren't even dreams at all, but another world! She just had to destroy everything, didn't she?
Didn't she know that everyone around him got hurt because of his dreams? Sure, he couldn't prove it was because of the dreams, and no one could ever prove it was related to him, but somehow… somehow he just knew. He would get mad, and someone would get hurt. She was the first person to tell him he wasn't just crazy, and, even though he would never admit it to himself, he wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe that there was more to his live and to the world than just school followed by a job. He wanted to trust her.
But everyone who got close to him got hurt, and he doesn't want her to be added to that morbid list. So really it'd be best if she was afraid of him and just left him alone. Then he wouldn't have to worry anymore. Then he could go on believing it is all just a dream. Then he can live his life without always wondering what he had forgotten.
But then again, if he did acknowledge her—if he listened to her and believed her—well, it was always possible that she could provide the answers to his questions. And if she could, then… What? What could he do about any of it once he knew? Did he even want to know? Up to now it was precisely because he had no proof that he could forgive himself for everyone getting hurt. Could he handle knowing the truth? Was it worth it?
Maybe… Maybe if he gave it a little more time? He could start with the small questions—how did she recognize the map? What were the places called? What was it like there? Then if he could still believe her… If she wasn't lying to him – he could always tell when someone was lying to him – then perhaps he could ask her why he remembered. She might not know, but it was worth a try, right?