The clock on my bedside table glowed softly, illuminating the dark room as the hour approached two o'clock in the morning. I had settled in for a cozy night and hard curled up while watching a classic film, Cyrano de Bergerac, featuring the amazing José Ferrer. Cyrano's eloquence, intelligence, and romantic heart tugged at something within me, especially as he yearned for Roxanne, only to believe himself unworthy of her love due to his looks.
As the movie reached its poignant climax, where Roxanne discovers that Cyrano was the man behind the words that had won her heart, my thoughts drifted to Max. A pang of longing filled my chest as I saw the parallels between them. Max, too, was smart and romantic, yet his insecurities often held him back, much like Cyrano's had. Max may not have the striking good looks of an actor or a model, but he was hardly repulsive. Then there was the contrasting character of Christian—someone who struggled to impress women, much like Max did with me.
By the time the credits rolled, my heart filled with empathy for Max and the struggles he faced. I wanted him to know that he was worthy of love just as he was, beyond any doubts he harbored about his appearance or social prowess. Before I'd even thought my decision through, I had braided my hair, slipped on a light jacket, and decided to jog over to Max's house.
The night was cool and refreshing, invigorating me as I made my way through the quiet streets. Upon arriving, I paused outside his home, noting the soft glow of moonlight casting shadows over the yard. The house appeared still; everyone inside was asleep. I felt a flicker of hesitation. What was I thinking, coming here at a time he and everyone else were sure to be asleep? On the other hand, I thought, maybe he was an insomniac! I had never been to his house before, but I knew I could find a way to reach him. I didn't have a plan, not really. I just wanted to see him.
I looked around the house and reasoned out which bedroom window was most likely to be his. There was a tree outside it, and with a graceful leap, I climbed up, settling onto a sturdy branch that overlooked his room. I focused my thoughts, listening intently for any sign of him. A wave of relief washed over me when I heard his thinking pattern clearly. This was indeed his room, but he wasn't awake. He was dreaming.
As I leaned closer, I could visualize the scene unfolding in his mind: Max and I were at prom, the atmosphere filled with music and laughter. I could almost see the glow of fairy lights surrounding us as we danced. In his dream, he was more confident, far less shy about expressing his admiration for me.
"I'm really impressed by how smart you are," he murmured, his words flowing effortlessly. "And your smile… it lights up the whole room." He paused for a moment, his voice softening. "Your eyes… they shine like gold. It's breathtaking."
A warm smile spread across my face as I listened, my heart fluttering at his words. He was so sweet, and hearing him dream about me made me feel cherished. But then, as dreams often do, everything began to go awry.
I watched in dismay as Max tried to impress me in his dream, only to have his pants tear dramatically at the seams. A ripple of laughter erupted from an imaginary crowd, and Max's face turned crimson as he fumbled, trying to maintain his composure. Then, to my horror, someone spilled a drink all over him, soaking his shirt and leaving him looking utterly disheveled.
"Ugh, great," he muttered to himself, frustration clear in his thoughts. I wished I could reach into his dream, comfort him, and let him know that none of it mattered to me. But just as he tried to clean himself up, one of the school bullies appeared, trying to trip him as he walked past.
"Why can't I just have one good moment?" Max lamented internally, his voice tinged with despair.
To make matters worse, a teacher suddenly materialized, grabbing him by the arm and assigning him a cleaning job to do while the rest of the students danced and celebrated.
"Max, you need to take care of this right now," the authoritative voice commanded. I felt Max's frustration peak as the teacher handed him a mop.
"But I'm missing the dance!" he protested, but the teacher remained steadfast.
My heart ached for Max as I watched his dream unravel. I felt a surge of empathy and concern wash over me. I couldn't help but wonder if his struggles in this dream mirrored the challenges he faced in his real life. I knew all too well the trials of teenage social dynamics, and it struck me that perhaps Max felt just as lost in reality as he did in his dream.
I wanted him to see that he didn't have to hide behind his insecurities or worry about making mistakes. I wanted be the friend who stood by him, cheering him on and reminding him of his worth.
After what felt like an eternity of watching him grapple with his chaotic dream, I quietly made my way down the tree. I promised myself that the next time we met, I would do everything I could to show Max just how special he was. I would be the friend he could lean on, just as he had been for me.
The next few days were filled with sunshine, brightening the world outside, but it felt like a gloomy cloud hung over my heart. My siblings and I were trapped at home, unable to go to school due to the beautiful weather that had swept across our town. The sun shone with a relentless radiance, making everything seem vibrant and alive—except for me. I missed Max more than I could have anticipated, and the thought of spending time with him, sharing laughter and warmth, filled me with a sense of longing.
I slipped out of the house in the dark of night, alternating between excitement and a hint of nervousness. The world was quieter now, the gentle chirping of crickets the only noise as I jogged over to Max's house once more.
Upon arriving, I glanced at the darkened windows, noting how every light was extinguished. I felt a rush of comfort, knowing he was safe inside, but there was also that familiar twinge of excitement as I thought about what awaited me in his dreams.
I scaled the tree once again, feeling like a playful shadow against the night sky. This time, I paused at his window, listening closely. To my delight, I could hear him dreaming, his thoughts creating a tapestry of romance and adventure.
In this dream, Max and I were at a fancy dinner aboard a glamorous harbor cruise. He was envisioning the twinkling lights of the city reflected in the water, the gentle sway of the boat as we enjoyed our meal. He'd imagined me wearing a flowing gown that shimmered in the candlelight, my hair cascading down my back like molten gold.
"You look stunning tonight, Edie," dream-Max said, his voice laced with admiration. "Your hair is beautiful."
My heart leaped at his words, but as dreams often do, this one began to take a turn for the comedic and disastrous. Suddenly, a waiter stumbled, sending a tray of food sailing through the air. Max, in an attempt to catch it, accidentally knocked over his glass of sparkling cider, which sprayed everywhere, drenching himself and several nearby passengers.
"Oh, no! Not again!" he groaned, his voice full of exasperation as he scrambled to regain his composure.
As the chaos unfolded, I couldn't help but chuckle silently. This was the Max I knew—the one who always seemed to face mishaps in the most humorous ways. But my laughter faded as I watched him struggle to sort out the mess.
Just as he managed to get everything under control, he looked around, clearly distressed. "Where did she go?" he asked the other passengers. "This is a BOAT, for crying out loud! Where could she possibly have gone?"
The despair in his voice tugged at my heart, and I could no longer stand idly by. I vaulted across to his window, grateful that it wasn't locked. I opened it carefully and slipped inside, careful not to make a sound.
I tiptoed over to his sleeping form. I leaned down, whispering softly into his ear, "I'm here, Max. I'm here."
He stirred slightly, rolling over, and I panicked for a moment. I hadn't intended to wake him up! I listened closely, relieved to hear that his breathing patterns hadn't changed. Reading his thoughts, I heard him reuniting with dream-Edie in the realm of his subconscious.
"Oh, Edie, thank goodness!" he exclaimed, a look of relief washing over his face in his dream. "I couldn't find you."
A mischievous idea sparked in my mind, and I whispered again, "I won't leave you, Max. Just hold me."
In his dream, he slipped his arms around me gently, whispering back, "You're so beautiful, Edie."
I couldn't help but grin as I saw the joyful look in his eyes as we embraced in his dream.
After a few moments, I quietly slipped out of his bedroom, careful not to disturb his slumber again. As I made my way home, I couldn't shake the thrill of what had just happened. I felt a warm glow in my chest, a sense of happiness that made me want to dance through the night.
I hoped that the next day's clouds would shroud the sun's brilliance just a little bit. "I can't believe this," I thought, excitement bubbling within me. "I'm actually looking forward to high school!"
The thought of being in the same place as Max, sharing glances and smiles, ignited a spark of anticipation. I realized I was no longer just a spectator in his life. I wanted to be an active part of it, sharing both the laughter and the struggles that came our way.
The next day at school, the clouds were mercifully thick, and I could hardly keep the anticipation out of my step as I walked into the building. The hum of fluorescent lights and the chatter of students filled the air, but my focus was singular. I spotted Max by the lockers, engrossed in a conversation with one of his friends, his lopsided grin lighting up his face.
"Good morning, Max," I said, my voice soft but bright enough to catch his attention.
He turned, and when he saw me, his grin widened. "Good morning, Edie. You look… uh… really nice today." His gaze flicked momentarily to my hair - I had drawn it away from my forehead with a simple barrette and let it tumble down my back. The compliment - awkward as it was - sent a quiet thrill through me. Despite his nervousness, I knew he meant it.
"Thanks," I said, brushing a strand back. "So, how'd you sleep?"
His face turned a little pink, but he chuckled. "Better than usual, actually. I had this weird but, uh, kind of nice dream…" He trailed off, looking sheepish.
I smiled, resisting the urge to pry. "Weird but nice? Sounds intriguing."
"Yeah, I guess. Anyway, what's up?" he asked, leaning against the locker, his posture relaxed but his eyes curious.
"Well," I began, adjusting my bag on my shoulder, "I was wondering… do you like old movies?"
"Old movies? Are you kidding?" His face lit up, and I felt a spark of delight at his enthusiasm. "I love old movies! The Adventures of Robin Hood, Casablanca, It Happened One Night—all of it. They're timeless."
I nodded, genuinely pleased. "Exactly. There's a charm to them like watching actors on a stage. I like modern movies too, but they were just different back then."
Max grinned, his blue eyes warm. "What's your favorite?"
I paused, feigning indecision even though my answer came easily. "I've always loved Cyrano de Bergerac with José Ferrer."
"No way," he said, his expression one of awe. "That's one of the best performances ever. The way he captures Cyrano's wit and heartbreak—just incredible."
"I know, right?" I said, thrilled by his reaction. For a moment, I nearly invited him over to watch it with me. I could picture it: Max sitting on the couch next to me, laughing at Cyrano's clever barbs, his hand holding mine as Roxanne finally realized that he was the man she'd loved all along. But then reality set in. My house wasn't like his. It was full of beauty and peril, of eyes that were dark and dangerous when hungry. A human boy—no matter how wonderful—did not belong there.
"I was thinking we should—" I started, then stopped myself. "Maybe you could borrow my copy sometime."
"That'd be great," Max said, looking genuinely pleased. "Thanks, Edie. You're, uh… you make it really easy to talk with you, you know that?"
The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard, and for a moment, I didn't know how to respond. "You are too, Max," I said finally, offering him a smile that I hoped hid my conflicted feelings.
I walked over to the library that evening. My mind churned with thoughts of Max, his dreams, and the way he'd called me easy to talk with. There was a warmth in his words that made me want to do more for him, to help him feel the happiness he deserved.
I stepped into the quiet sanctuary of the library, the scent of old books wrapping around me. I wandered the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines until I found the section on psychology. My eyes skimmed the titles: Understanding Sleep, A New Theory of Dream Interpretation, The Influence of the Subconscious.
I pulled a few books from the shelves and settled into a secluded corner. As I flipped through the pages, I found myself fascinated. I hadn't slept in so many years that I'd forgotten almost everything about what dreaming was like. Dreams, it seemed, were a realm where the boundaries of the conscious mind blurred. There were times when it was possible for outside influences to seep in without the dreamer's awareness.
"Interesting," I thought to myself, absorbing the theories about lucid dreaming and external stimuli. If I could find a way to guide Max's dreams without waking him, I might be able to help him see himself the way I saw him—kind, intelligent, and far more capable than he gave himself credit for.
I stayed in the library until the lights dimmed, signaling closing time. I checked out several and walked home under the cover of night. A plan began to form in my mind. If I could gently nudge Max's subconscious, perhaps I could ease some of the anxieties that haunted him—even if he never knew I was there.
For the first time in decades, I felt truly alive. The world didn't seem dull and dry anymore - it held possibilities. At the center of it all was Max, the boy with the lopsided grin who was beginning to mean more to me than I ever expected.
Finally, in one of the books I was leafing through, I discovered a technique similar to hypnosis. According to the book, when someone is talking in their sleep, another person could sometimes influence their dream by saying something like "you will listen to my voice, but not wake up."
But would that work on Max? He didn't talk in his sleep. I only knew what he'd been dreaming about because I could read minds.
It was just past one in the morning when I arrived at Max's house. A single light glowed in the kitchen window, and as I got closer, I heard raised voices—his parents. Their argument carried through the still night air, words cruel and sharp with tension. I stayed in the shadows, out of sight, my heart sinking for Max. If this was the kind of environment he lived in, no wonder his dreams turned sour so easily.
Eventually, the kitchen light flicked off, and the house fell silent. I waited a little longer before scaling the tree outside Max's window, giving his parents enough time to go to bed. The climb was easy, and the window, as always, wasn't locked. I slipped inside quietly, landing with barely a sound on the carpeted floor.
Max was asleep, sprawled on his side, one arm draped over his pillow. His breathing was slow and steady, but when I tuned into his thoughts, I heard nothing at first. There was no dream, just the calm quiet of deep sleep. I lay down on the floor beside his bed and waited.
Fifteen minutes passed before his thoughts shifted, pulling him into a dream. But instead of a sweet, romantic narrative like the ones I'd heard before, this one was different. Harsh words echoed in his mind, voices raised in accusation. His parents weren't just arguing with each other. They were yelling at him now, their anger redirected at their son.
The pain in his thoughts hit me like a blow. He didn't deserve this. None of it.
I couldn't let him stay trapped in this nightmare. Rising quietly, I moved to the edge of his bed and lay down in beside him, on top of the blankets. Carefully, I leaned close, my lips just inches from his ear.
"Max," I whispered, my voice soft and soothing. "You will listen to my voice, but you will not wake up. You will listen to my voice, but you will not wake up."
His breathing varied for a moment, then evened out again. Encouraged, I continued.
"I am here with you, Max," I murmured, my voice low and gentle. "Everything is all right. You're not alone. I'm here."
The change was subtle at first. The stormy swirl of his thoughts began to calm, the angry voices fading into the background. Slowly, a new dream took shape, and to my relief, I was at the center of it.
In his dream, we were sitting on a blanket under a tree, sunlight filtering through the leaves. We were having a picnic! Dream-Max was smiling, his usual nervousness gone as he passed me a muffin. I smiled at his innocence: he was imagining me in broad daylight, eating human food.
"You're incredible, Edie," he said, his voice warm and steady. "I don't know how you do it, but you make everything better."
I smiled in the dream, though the real me lying beside him on the bed felt a spark of tenderness. The sincerity in his dream-voice mirrored the way he must truly feel, and it touched me more deeply than I expected.
"You're incredible too, Max," I whispered softly into his ear, weaving my words into his dream. "More than you know."
In the dream, Max's expression brightened further. He reached out, taking my hand with surprising confidence. "Thanks, Edie. That means a lot."
I stayed with him for a while longer, guiding his dream gently, keeping it light and warm. When his breathing shifted again, signaling a deeper sleep, I slipped out of the bed as quietly as I had come. I paused at the window, looking back at him.
"Sweet dreams, Max," I whispered, and then I was gone.
As I jogged home under the cover of darkness, I couldn't stop smiling. For all the decades I had spent among humans, I had never felt this kind of bond before. Max was… different. I was beginning to realize just how much that meant to me.