The clock on the wall didn't tick; it thudded. Each second was a hammer blow against the silence of the apartment. It was 11:00 PM, the night before the Entrance Exam—the singular event that had loomed over his life for three hundred and sixty-five days.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. In the dark, the white plaster looked like a heavy shroud pressing down on him. He had studied. He had memorised the formulas until they bled into his dreams. He had sacrificed his social life, his hobbies, and his sleep. Yet, the voice in his head was a cruel editor, highlighting everything he might have missed.
‘What if they ask about the one concept skimmed? What I forgot everything? What if I'm simply not meant to be more than this?’
This wasn't just stress; it was a physical heaviness. A clinical darkness. He felt the familiar pull of the depression that had shadowed his study hours—a sense that even if he succeeded, he would still be empty. He turned on his side, his eyes burning, but sleep was a shore he couldn't reach.
Then, the air in the room changed. It didn't get colder, but it grew still , as if the wind outside had held its breath.
A shimmer caught the corner of his eye. At first, he thought it was a floater in his vision, a trick of his exhausted retinas. But the light grew. It was a soft, ethereal blue, like the glow of a TV screen in a dark room, but more natural—the colour of the ocean at dusk.
Slowly, the light took the shape of a woman. She was dressed in a gown that seemed woven from mist—white silk layered over deep navy blue. She was beautiful, but it was a terrifying beauty, the kind that made his heart feel like it was failing. She didn't walk; she simply existed beside him, reclining on the bed as if she had always been there.
He froze. His breath hitched in his throat. He was a man of science, a student of logic. ‘ Hallucinations,’ he told himself. ‘ Stress-induced psychosis. My brain is misfiring due to the cortisol.’
He squeezed his eyes shut, counting to ten. "Go away," he whispered. "You aren't real."
When he opened them, she was closer. She didn't touch him, but he felt a warmth radiating from her blue dress. She looked at him with eyes that seemed to know every secret he had ever hidden.
"You've done enough," she whispered. Her voice wasn't a sound; it was a vibration in his chest. "The year is behind you. Sleep now. Tomorrow, it will be alright."
For the first time in months, the "what-ifs" went silent. The heavy ceiling felt light again. He didn't know if he was dreaming or dying, and in that moment, he didn't care. He fell into a sleep so deep it felt like drowning in velvet.
…
The next morning was a blur of grey light and scratchy pens. He sat in the exam hall, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. He should have been panicked, but he felt a strange, detached calm. Every time a difficult question appeared, he caught a whiff of something in the air—the scent of rain and cold silk.
‘It will be alright,’ her voice echoed.
He finished the exam early. As he walked out into the sunlight, he felt like a ghost himself. He went home, ignored his books, and collapsed onto his bed. He didn't want to check his answers. He didn't want to call his friends. He only wanted to return to the blue.
That night, she was waiting.
"Didn't I tell you it would be okay?" she asked, a playful tilt to her lips.
This time, they weren't in his room. They were in a landscape of rolling hills and violet skies. They talked. They walked for miles. He told her about his childhood, about the pressure of his parents' expectations, and about the fear that he was invisible. She listened with a depth that no person in the "real" world ever could.
When he woke up, he checked his watch. Only eight hours had passed. But his mind was heavy with the memory of forty-eight hours of conversation. This was the Dilation. Time moved differently when he was with her. He had lived two full days in the span of a single night.
But as he swung his legs out of bed, a cold realisation hit him. He could remember the sound of her laugh. He could remember the way the blue fabric moved. But her face—her eyes, her nose, the curve of her jaw—was a blur. It was as if his mind refused to record her features, leaving only a glowing silhouette in his memory.
…
The following weeks were a slow descent into obsession. He received his exam results—he had passed with flying colours—but the news felt like an announcement for someone else.
He found himself looking at the women in his life—the students at the library, the girls at the café—and felt a strange, hollow pity. They were so... solid . So ordinary. Their voices were too loud, their movements too clumsy. None of them had that translucent glow. None of them could offer him a lifetime in a night.
He was losing interest in the world of the living. He began to sleep more, retreating into the blue as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. His friends called it "post-exam depression," but he knew better. He was in love with a dream, and reality was the nightmare.
One night, in a garden of blue roses that existed only behind his eyelids, he took her hand.
"Who are you?" he asked. "Why did you come to me when I was breaking?"
In the depths of a night that felt forty-eight hours long, Atharv stood with her on a balcony overlooking a sea that didn't obey the laws of physics. The water was still, like glass, reflecting a moon that never moved.
“I can’t tell you that yet, Atharv,” she said, her voice catching the light. “But you will know in time.”
Atharv looked at her, his heart heavy with the mystery. “Why?”
“Because there are some things you shouldn’t know ahead of time,” she replied softly, her translucent fingers trailing through the air. “After all, the truth is something you must arrive at eventually by yourself.”
Atharv stepped closer, desperate to bridge the gap between his reality and her shimmering existence. “At least tell me where you are. Are you just a projection of my mind? A dream? Or do you exist somewhere out there, under the same sun I see?”
She laughed, a sound like silver bells. Her smile was like a moon reflected in a painted ocean—luminous, yet untouchable. “If you consider me just a dream, Atharv, you are making me feel quite non-existent. As for where I live? I live somewhere far—very far from where you reside.”
Her expression turned serious then, though her eyes remained kind. “You should concentrate on living in your world. I see you there, Atharv. You aren't enjoying it. You’re moving like a ghost through your own life.”
She reached out, her hand hovering near his chest. “If you don't learn to live fully there, I won't be able to meet you here. Our connection depends on your strength, not your sadness.”
“I’m trying,” Atharv whispered. “But I fear that if I get too involved in that world... you might not appear again. I’m afraid of waking up to a world where you were never there.”
“Nah!” she teased, waving away his doubt. “You are thinking too much. I am always with you, Atharv. Everywhere. I am the wind in the trees and the silence between your thoughts. Now, go. Return to your world and find something to enjoy.”
And thus, he woke up.
He murmured to himself, “If you really exist anywhere, I will find you, no matter what.”
But this time, the room didn't feel empty. Atharv rose from his bed and didn't look at his books with dread. He walked into his university classes with his head held high. He didn't just study; he engaged. He joined study groups, laughed at his friends' jokes, and earned a CGPA that became the talk of the department.
He became a man of the world, but he remained a citizen of the dream.
Every evening, after a day of remarkable success, he would lie down and close his eyes, ready to report back to her. He told her about the high marks, the new friends, and the taste of the coffee in the cafeteria. He lived his life for two people—himself and the girl who lived 'far, very far away.'