The Boy I Dream Of
The first morning of university felt strangely muted, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
Han Rui walked across campus with his backpack slung loosely over one shoulder, taking in the sea of unfamiliar faces. Some students were huddled in groups, laughing too loudly as they navigated the campus map. Others walked briskly alone, earbuds in, eyes fixed on the future. Han Rui drifted somewhere in between, not quite solitary, not quite part of the crowd.
The main academic buildings loomed ahead, pale stone warmed by the sun. Trees swayed lazily at the edges of the courtyard, and upperclassmen waved signs advertising clubs and student groups. It should have felt exciting, like stepping into a new life. Instead, Han Rui felt the same unease that had shadowed him for years.
It started the summer after his eighteenth birthday. The dreams.
At first, he thought they were simply echoes of the fantasy novels he liked to read—dreams of battles, of crumbling palaces, of fire and snow. But then the boy appeared. Always the same boy.
Dark eyes, filled with a sorrow that refused to fade. A hand reaching out for him in the chaos. A voice whispering promises he could never quite remember when he woke.
For three years, the dreams had not left him. Sometimes they came gentle, like a blurred memory. Other nights, they arrived sharp as knives, leaving him breathless in the dark.
And now, as Han Rui stepped into the echoing lecture hall, he felt the weight of those years pressing against his chest.
The room was filled with chatter. Students moved between rows, claiming seats with the nervous energy of people who had not yet figured out where they belonged. Han Rui hesitated near the middle, scanning for a place that looked safe—neither too isolated nor too exposed. He slipped into a seat near the window, exhaling slowly.
For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine that this year would be normal. That he could keep his head down, study, graduate, and live quietly.
But then someone paused at his row.
Han Rui looked up, and the world tilted.
The boy stood there, hand resting lightly on the back of the chair, waiting. His eyes were dark, steady, and achingly familiar. Not from this world. From the other one—the one that came to him in dreams.
Han Rui's pulse stuttered.
The boy inclined his head slightly, wordless, as though asking if the seat was free.
Han Rui's body betrayed him, nodding before his mind caught up.
The boy slid into the chair beside him, movements unhurried, precise. The faint scent of cedar drifted in the air, clean and sharp, curling into Han Rui's lungs. He clicked his pen open, the sound somehow magnified in Han Rui's ears, anchoring him to reality when everything else felt unreal.
Han Rui stared at the screen at the front of the room, willing himself to focus. Numbers and formulas scrolled across the slides, but they meant nothing. His gaze flicked back against his will, drawn again and again to the boy at his side.
He wasn't imagining it. The curve of his jaw, the tilt of his mouth, the shadow of sadness hidden beneath his eyes—it was the same. It was him.
The boy introduced himself in a low, even voice. Li Wen.
The name settled heavily in Han Rui's chest, as though it belonged there, as though it had always belonged there. He gave his own name in return, though the syllables felt clumsy on his tongue.
Li Wen's smile came easily. It was gentle, unassuming, the kind of smile that softened the air around him. Han Rui had seen that smile before. In the dream, it had been the last thing he saw before everything collapsed into ruin.
The lecture continued. The professor's voice droned in the background, indistinct. Han Rui gripped his pen tightly, but his notes were incoherent lines, drifting across the page without meaning.
Every brush of Li Wen's sleeve against his arm sent a jolt through him, as if waking an old wound. Each accidental touch unraveled another thread of memory—snow stained red, a desperate promise whispered against his ear, the sharp tang of blood on his tongue.
He flinched once, too visibly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Li Wen turn, faint concern tightening the corners of his expression. The movement drew Han Rui further in, as if the air between them carried its own gravity.
Han Rui forced out an excuse, his voice thin. Something about nerves. First day jitters.
Li Wen's eyes softened. A quiet laugh slipped past his lips, low and warm, as though he already knew Han Rui better than he should. He said something meant to comfort, something light, yet the words hit Han Rui like thunder.
Because he had heard them before. Once, in another time, in another place, those same words had been spoken—right before death claimed them both.
Han Rui's pen stilled. His vision blurred.
The class ended eventually, though Han Rui could not remember a single thing that had been said. Students filed out in a rush, laughter and chatter spilling into the corridor. Han Rui lingered, reluctant to stand, reluctant to acknowledge that Li Wen was real, that he existed here in flesh and blood.
When he finally looked up, Li Wen was gathering his things with calm precision. Their eyes met for a moment. Something unreadable passed between them, fleeting but sharp enough to make Han Rui's breath catch.
He turned away too quickly, shoulders tense, trying to shake off the feeling that his past had just walked back into his life.
Outside, sunlight poured across the campus, bright and ordinary. Students hurried to their next classes, carrying books, talking about weekend plans.
Everything looked normal.
But for Han Rui, nothing would ever be normal again.
The boy from his dreams was here. Alive. Breathing. Smiling.
And Han Rui had no idea if that was salvation—or punishment.