بسْمِ ٱللَّٰهِ ٱلرَّحْمَٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ
In The Name Of Allah, The Most Beneficent, The Most Merciful

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Oh, so I'm in a courtroom.

My sight swiftly runs around the court in mere curiosity, finding it out to be thronged with people wearing formal suits. As I feel a warm touch on the top of my hand, I turn to my left, noticing my mother sitting next to me. A tinge of anxiety marring her skin. When I am about to ask the cause of her fretfulness, she ushers me to look forward but not let a single syllable utter from her lips. Throwing a last weariful glance in her direction, I look ahead and find a girl standing on a witness stand with numerous people surrounding her.

Strange. I tilt my head in contemplation. I never knew these many people were allowed to surround a person on a witness stand, maybe because they aren't.

I can not make out her facial features because of the crowd, but from where I am sitting, I can tell she is wearing a white dress, and her head is covered by a-- veil of some sort. I guess.

An unfamiliar feeling erupts in my bosom, and suddenly I feel my heart inclining to her.

But why?

Getting up from the chair, my feet begin to move out by themselves, leaving my mother behind in bewilderment because of my sudden movements. My vision turns hazy with people changing places as if they are ghosts, not humans. I thought it would be hard to approach that mysterious girl, but to my astonishment, as I got closer and closer, people started to make way for me. Their eyes glimmer at the sight of me.

My steps slow down, and my widen-orbs scrutinize them, trying to comprehend this unusuality.

Who am I? Why are they treating me with such high regard, as if I am someone famous, someone, who has a crown of achievement over his head, someone, with high honor?

A ruckus near the witness stand breaks my line of musing. I hurriedly look ahead back again. Catching my pace, I take long steps toward it.

My gaze then collides with her figure. Her back is slightly leaned from pressure because question after question is fired up at her by many people.

Though judging by her posture, she looks as if she is overwhelmed, but God— the way she talks, the way she portrays her views, and the way the words come out of her mouth; it is vivid yet piercing, compelling me to herself like a strong, invisible magnetic force that I have no control over.

Wait, God? I do not believe in God. I never did.

My lens moves down, and a feeling of pity for her rises. Her hands —- her fingers specifically are bound by wires of different mikes. But they aren't regular mikes— singers use them. Each one of them is fancier than the other. But why does she have such posh mikes? And why are the people pulling those wires while interrogating her?

And then fury, madness, and protectiveness surge up into my veins.

With a clenched jaw and steely force, I push a man back and then another until I reach the stand with her back facing me. What is odd is that she still keeps answering, and it agitated me to a great extent.

Pulling her to me forcefully from the back, I anticipated releasing her, but to my dismay, she couldn't budge as she was tangled. The only way to get her out of here is to get rid of these wires. And so, I start to break some of them with my bare hands.

Blood gushes out of them as I try to implement my wild thoughts. It pierces my skin as if it is made of glass, not copper. Though in reality, it is the other way around.

My charcoal bangs get in my eye, and beads of perspiration form on my forehead. Removing my bangs and wiping the sweat on my forehead with my bloody hands, I pull her to me. We exit the courtroom in haste and with heavy breathing.

As soon as I find a secluded alley in the building, I entrap her between me and the wall.

"What the hell were you doing back there?" I yell at her in pure agitation.

But why am I doing it so? Why does it matter to me whatever she does? Why does it feel that I've known her for years and not for a couple of hours? So strange. This familiarity is strange.

Her face is concealed by my shadow and by the darkness of the hallway. I squeeze my eyes, trying to get a better view of her face, but receive none, irking me in frustration. Her mere existence does wonders to my heart, and our proximity does so even more.

She reaches for my hand, my bloodied hand. Gently grasping it, she caresses it, cleaning the red liquid from her lips. And this act explodes fireworks in the walls of my chest. Happiness, tranquility, and love boom in my heart, numbing my senses and fading me into a realm of unending bliss.

Just as I begin to think this is eternity, she lets go of my hand. With the last touch of her cold fingers on my cheek, she leaves and soon camouflages herself in the darkness. My eyes widen in shock. I try to run after her, but I find myself back again in the courtroom. Like a madman, I try to find her, searching for her in every corner with no fruitful results.

The desire for her to be in my arms again, to see her again, and to be around her again, burns inside my chest to the extent that I feel like dying. A warm palm on my shoulder pulls me out of my reverie. I turn back to find the source. "Mama! Have you seen her? She is gone! She was just with me, and now she is gone! Where is she?" I tightly clutch my mother's shoulders. Panic is evident in my voice, and my breathing gets uneven.

"Don't fret, my son. You'll see her soon, in a month and a half." My mother softly says with a smile. Relief washes over me, and my heart feels light. This revelation blows away the dark cloud of fear from over my head.

"But who was she?" I ask.

My mother laughs at my question, "Silly, did you forget? She is your wife, darling."

His upper lashes softly break contact with the lower ones as his eyelids smoothly open. The soft rays of morning sunlight penetrate the aluminum window making its portrait asymmetrically. The white walls are being illuminated by the sunlight partially. It tickles his face, desperately trying to catch his attention, but he is preoccupied with his musings about her.

He sits up on his bed. His obdurate bangs fell in his eyes. However, he remains motionless, staring at his white duvet with widened eyes, without blinking them, not even once. His dream channeled in his colored lens. Each detail of it, he remembers.

And when he remembers all of it, a tight grip of emotions clutches his heart. His breathing again starts to get heavy. His yearning for her intensifies as if a part of his soul is missing. The desire to get close to her grows anxiousness in his bosom, for she brought such tranquility with herself that he wants to drown in it, and without it, he feels lost. Never in his nineteen years had he felt something so pure, so peaceful. And the irony is that he does not even know her, for she is just a part of his dream. Or so he thought.

"Finally! you awoke from your beauty sleep." James enters his room with a loud bang, scaring him by demolishing the peacefulness surrounding him.

The blue colored eye man sits on his bed, stuffing his mouth with chips. "Aunt told me you have an audition today at Seiga," James says.

"Do not speak with your mouth full," He says, eyeing his friend with a disgusted look. "And yes, I do have an audition. So get out of here. I need to clean up." He pushes the duvet away from his body, letting the cold bite his exposed skin.

Cold. Her cold fingers. His brain recalls.

⊰|                    |⊱

Changing into a pair of jeans and a nude teal green shirt, he sprays his favorite cologne on himself. He looks at his reflection, his lens changing its color into the color of his shirt. A small smile adorns his lips. With subtle steps and his thoughts wandering over to someone, he goes downstairs.

"--I tried calling his friends to have dinner with u--, oh son, you're here," Janet, his mother chirps, rushing over to him. "About time you got ready. Here, come on, I have made pancakes." Janet takes his arm and guides him to the table.

"Nah, I will not be eating anything before the audition." He pulls back his arm from her gently. "But if you have made coffee, I'll take that." He speaks with a warm smile dancing on his lips.

Nodding her head in affirmation, Janet goes to fill it in a bottle before handing it to him. Muttering a small thanks, he grasps it. He heads to the door, but not before kissing her cheek.

"Kyle." He halts and turns to his mother. Janet takes a step closer to her son. Patting his head, she then touches his cheek with her palm affectionately. "You'll do just great, and they will be impressed by you, for they will be the losers if they let go of a gem like you." Her morning sky-colored lens sparkles with love for him. "And no more going around with a long face. You silly man! You think you can fool your mother?" She lightly pulls his ears, earning a cry escaping from him.

But Mom, I am not worried about the audition. Heck, it's not even in my mind now. My dream has overtaken my senses, for this has never happened before. And I can't imagine losing her. My wife. But what a shame! I don't have a wife, and that girl in my dream might just be an illusion. And nothing more. Kyle ponders, smiling ruefully.

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| HADITH |

Narrated Abu Qatada: The Prophet said, "A good dream is from Allah, and a bad dream is from Satan. So whoever has seen (in a dream) something he dislike, then he should spit without saliva, thrice on his left and seek refuge with Allah from Satan, for it will not harm him, and Satan cannot appear in my shape."

-Sahih Bukhari

| AUTHOR'S NOTE |

This chapter holds very special place in my life.

A special thanks to @queenz3e and @TheLostAndFoundPile for their love!

May Allah keep all of you guys happy and contented!

-  W A L I Y A