Colton Ray

The dreams started when I was fifteen. At first, they were fleeting—soft glimpses of a face I couldn't quite hold onto, a presence more than a person. But over time, the details sharpened: striking eyes that seemed to see straight through me, a confident yet gentle smile, and a voice I could never fully hear but always felt. He became a shadow in my thoughts, a phantom who haunted my sleep with the promise of something I couldn’t explain. I didn’t know who he was or if he was even real. I only knew he felt like home. Every year, my family hosted an extravagant charity gala—a spectacle of wealth disguised as goodwill. It was the kind of event where everyone dressed to impress, with champagne flowing freely and cameras flashing. I usually went begrudgingly, playing the role of the dutiful daughter while secretly counting the hours until I could escape. But this year felt different. There was a strange buzz in the air, an unshakable sense that something was going to happen. As I stepped into the grand ballroom, draped in shimmering gold and surrounded by the hum of polite conversation, I felt it again—that pull. My heart raced for no reason, or at least none that I could name. Then I saw him. He stood near the silent auction table, his posture relaxed yet commanding. His dark hair was perfectly tousled, his tailored suit fitting him like a second skin. And those eyes—those piercing, unforgettable eyes—met mine from across the room. It was him. The man from my dreams. I froze, my breath caught somewhere between disbelief and anticipation. He seemed equally stunned, his gaze lingering on me as if he, too, recognized me. The room blurred around us, the sounds fading to a distant hum. In that moment, it was just him and me, as if the universe had conspired to bring us together. But who was he? And how could he possibly be real?