She was always used to strange dreams. Dark, morbid, heart-wrenching dreams which would leave behind their vestiges in her mind for days as if she didn’t merely dream them. She was used to them, and yet never quite used to the impact they had on her. Nobody understood that the dreams had long ceased to be a fragment of fantasy; they had each become an experience as real as anything else.
But this? This was different. She felt an overwhelming emotion that she could not explain for quite some time until, like a wave, it hit her. It was as if it had all happened to her in a century long past. It wasn’t deja vu, she knew how that felt. This was as if she was reminiscing a night in her life so far back in her past that she couldn’t trace it.
This was nostalgia. But how could that be?
She was as old as she knew herself to be now, but she knew this was a different world. Everything looked new. It was a world she didn’t recognise at first glance, but somehow something told her it was home.
She was angry with him, and such a familiar rage that she felt certain was her own; but she knew it would die. Not just because he was the love of her life, but more because she despised remaining angry. As he pulled her close, the two others, a boy and a girl, smiled. They were together again, the four friends, and time ceased to exist from that moment. This was forever.
So they ran, as the sun disappeared, to the hill and laid down, waiting for the red and golden fireworks. They knew the world would soon invite the wicked like it always did. They knew everybody else would keep hurrying, for although time didn’t exist, clocks did. But they didn’t care, for theirs was to laugh in unreal moments of freedom, live in unbearable moments of lightness, and love; simply, extraordinarily.
And she knew this wasn’t a dream. This was a memory.
P.S. What if I say that this is not fiction?