Sutera Weathers sat on her bed, brushing her long, silky blonde hair with a wooden-handled brush, her mind wandering away from her as the bristles of the brush, making a gentle, rhythmic scraping sound, unwove each strand, and threatened to lull her back to sleep. She still wore her night clothes, her favorite blue T-shirt, which was baggy in contrast to her white pajama pants, which hugged her legs comfortably and was covered in pink and blue polka dots. Her eyes were glazed, a circle of gold soothing her dilated pupils and surrounded by a sea of a beautiful and mystical blue-green that glistened in what little morning light entered the room. She smiled, distractedly, looking off into the distance, her eyes fixated on the familiar white-painted nightstand.


Nearly everything was small and wooden in her room, like the nightstand, although it was painted over with white. It was old and square, and held a battery-powered alarm clock and some scattered papers. The nightstand sat pushed up against the side of her queen-sized bed, the tall metal frame dangling her feet teasingly from the floor, the soft white carpet calling to her, urging and begging her to step down. At the foot of her bed, which was in the center of the wall facing the door, was a large, plain wooden chest that she put anything and everything in, from purses, to jackets, to paper, to shoes. Next to the window, on the right wall, was a small wooden desk, the wood painted over white, similar to how the nightstand was. Another plain wooden desk with wheels was sitting on the opposite side of the window, covered in more various papers.


On the left wall, there was a small-looking yet spacious closet between a dresser and a vanity. The closet was bursting with clothes, all of various colors and styles. The dresser was filled to the brim as well, with basically the same amount of clothes that the closet had somehow put away in it. The dresser was about five feet tall, and was plain, polished wood that was scuffed by years of wear and movement. The vanity was similar, fairly scuffed and plain wooden, but didn’t have the polished look that the dresser had. The vanity was covered in various hair and makeup products, and most of it was left untouched. But instead of seeing the soft lavender walls of her bedroom, she saw a clearing.


Sutera studied every detail in amazement, her eyes glowing garnet without her knowledge. She could feel herself standing in the center of the clearing; she could feel her fatigue, a little pain, and for some reason, sadness and anger. She looked down to make sure she was herself still, and sure enough, she saw her familiar combat boots, covered in mud and grass, worn and scuffed by some odd adventure. She noticed that her arms were covered in scratches and bruises, and realized her wrist was sprained as she tried to lean on an old stump. She shot up, then instead of studying herself, became completely aware of her surroundings.


The clearing was rather large, but seemed small, being swallowed up by all of the wild flora and fauna that surrounded it. The woods were thick, vines and thorns snaking across the ground and up nearly every tree. It seemed to be Autumn, the newly-turned yellow, brown, red, and orange leaves making the colors of the flowers and such that surrounded the clearing more prominent. The most prominent plant was just across from the path she somehow remembered taking to get into the clearing. It was a simple little rosebush, with full, beautiful red and pink roses covering it, begging to be picked. Sutera couldn’t help but smile.


Her smile grew as an oddly familiar man entered the clearing. She didn’t know who he was, but she felt that she had seen him before. He didn’t say a word, but a soft smile played at his lips. He was about 5’ 9”, fairly muscular, with broad shoulders, a squared jaw, and a strong stature. His hair was darker than the trunks of the trees that surrounded the clearing, dark brown, nearly black, and his eyes were a breath-taking crystal blue that were sharper than a needle and shone brighter than any star Sutera had ever seen. His hair came down to the nape of his neck, and had sweet, soft, full lips. He wore a tattered grey T-shirt and some ripped jeans, and his black boots were covered in mud and grass just as hers were.


He kept silent, and Sutera felt herself move forward behind him. She felt her lips move, but heard nothing. He answered, and reached for his pocket. She wanted to move back, but felt herself move even closer. He handed her a folded note, said something, and walked away, towards the rosebush. She uncontrollably followed, and he took a newly-sharpened knife. She felt fear rise up in her throat. She felt stupid as he simply cut a red rose, every petal absolutely perfect, said something else, and grinned. She felt herself grin back, and she leaned in to kiss him. As her eyes slowly closed, she tried to remember his name.


At that moment, reality decided to end the amazingly real dream and tear the image from her starving mind. Her grieving mind tried to respawn the image, unsuccessfully, and still yearningly craved the differentiality. The majesty of the flora and fauna, the handsome man, the romantic setting; all gone except for the basic details that lingered faintly in her mind. She felt the love for him still that had been in her daydream, and although she had never felt something so strong, she knew it had to be love. She wanted to hold him and stay in his arms forever, she wanted to stay and never leave, and although she had never met him before that she could recall, she recognized his face from somewhere, most likely the academy. She wanted to be with him, and she wanted to know his name.