Chapter 5 Whose Dream Is Whose Pain?
# Chapter 5: Whose Dream Is Whose Pain?
The final twenty-four hours of our connection stretched before us like an ultimatum. After Bram's revelation about Keen, I'd insisted on going home alone, needing space from the man who had somehow accessed my most guarded memories.
"Call me if you need anything," he'd said as I left the hospital. I didn't respond, just walked away feeling his concern like a hand on my back.
Now, in my apartment, I systematically shut him out. I turned off my phone. I ate bland food. I avoided music. I even canceled appointments, sitting instead in perfect stillness on my living room floor, trying to feel only myself.
It was harder than I expected. After just three days, I'd grown accustomed to the background hum of Bram's existence—his steady heartbeat, the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle shifts in his mood. Without actively focusing on those sensations, I felt oddly untethered, as if parts of me had gone numb.
By afternoon, restlessness drove me to the flower shop. Lily looked up in surprise when I entered.
"Thought you took the day off?"
"Needed something to do with my hands," I murmured, reaching for a bucket of ranunculus blooms.
"Well, since you're here..." She handed me a delivery order. "The Henderson wedding called. They want sample centerpieces by tomorrow."
I welcomed the distraction, losing myself in the familiar motions of trimming stems and arranging blooms. But even surrounded by flowers, Bram's absence felt tangible. When I reached for the blue ribbon, I half-expected to taste coffee on my tongue or feel the weight of his security uniform across my shoulders.
Nothing came.
"You're doing it again," Lily said, interrupting my thoughts.
"Doing what?"
"That thing where you're physically here but mentally somewhere else." She crossed her arms. "What happened with Zipline Guy?"
I sighed, setting down my scissors. "Nothing happened. Nothing will happen. Tomorrow we'll be completely disconnected and back to being strangers."
"And that's what you want?"
The question hit harder than it should have. Was it what I wanted? Before I could answer, the shop bell chimed. A woman entered—tall, model-gorgeous, with cropped dark hair and intelligent eyes.
"I'm looking for Calla Reynolds," she said.
"That's me."
She extended a hand. "Naelle Winters. I work with Bram at Sentinel Security."
My pulse quickened. "Is he okay?"
"Physically? Yes." She studied me with unsettling intensity. "Mentally? He's been sitting outside the medical center for hours, sketching your face over and over. Our supervisor thinks he's having a breakdown."
Lily whistled softly behind me. "I'll just... water the back room plants," she murmured, tactfully retreating.
When we were alone, Naelle's professional demeanor softened slightly. "Look, I don't understand what's happening between you two. Bram tried to explain this whole 'shared senses' thing, but it sounds like science fiction."
"It's complicated," I admitted.
"What I do know," she continued, "is that Bram hasn't been himself. He's distracted, emotional. This morning he snapped at our team leader—something he's never done in three years."
Guilt twisted in my stomach. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disrupt his life."
"That's just it." Naelle leaned against the counter. "His life needed disrupting. Before this, he was..." she searched for the right words, "existing, not living. Going through motions."
I absorbed this, trying to reconcile it with the vibrant presence I'd felt inside my mind for the past three days.
"He's at the beach," Naelle said finally. "Thought you should know."
After she left, Lily emerged from the back room. "So...?"
"I need to close up early," I said, already untying my apron.
---
I found Bram at North Point Beach, standing at the water's edge. Wind whipped around him, powerful enough that I could feel it tearing at my own ears though I was still twenty yards away. The connection was still there, just muted by distance and my attempts to block it.
As I approached, something strange happened. Though the crashing waves should have drowned out any other sound, I heard a distinct rhythm—too steady to be the ocean, too organic to be mechanical.
A heartbeat. His heartbeat.
He turned before I reached him, sensing my presence. "You came."
"Naelle found me," I explained, stopping a few feet away.
He grimaced. "She shouldn't have bothered you."
"She's worried. Says you've been acting strange."
"Strange?" He laughed hollowly. "I've spent three days sharing my entire sensory experience with another human being. 'Strange' doesn't begin to cover it."
Wind buffeted us, and I wrapped my arms around myself. "I felt you all day," I admitted. "Even when I tried not to."
His expression softened. "I know. I felt you blocking me out."
"I was scared," I said, the words carried away by the wind. "What you said about Keen—"
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it."
"No, it's..." I searched for the right words. "No one knows about him. About what happened. I've never told anyone."
"You didn't tell me either," Bram pointed out. "I just... experienced it with you."
We stood in silence, watching waves crash against the shore. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the sand.
"What happens tomorrow?" I finally asked. "When this is over?"
Bram turned to face me fully. "Do you want it to be over?"
The question hung between us, weighted with possibilities. Before I could answer, my phone rang—the medical center.
"Ms. Reynolds? This is Dr. Fawkes. Our systems are showing significant emotional synchronization between you and Mr. Mathis. I strongly advise you both to maintain emotional distance until disconnection."
"What happens if we don't?" I asked, watching Bram's face.
"As I explained earlier, one or both of you may experience prolonged sensory echo. In severe cases, patients report feeling... incomplete without their connection partner."
After I hung up, I relayed the conversation to Bram. His response surprised me.
"Would feeling incomplete be worse than what we felt before this happened?"
The question struck me silent. What had I felt before Bram? Safe, certainly. Self-contained. But also... alone, in a way I hadn't fully recognized until experiencing what it meant to be truly connected to another person.
"Come with me," I said impulsively, holding out my hand.
---
My apartment was dark when we arrived. I moved around lighting candles, aware of Bram standing uncertainly by the door.
"What are we doing?" he asked.
"Testing something." I sat on the floor, patting the space across from me. "If we only have a few hours left, I want to understand what this really is."
He joined me, our knees nearly touching. In the candlelight, his eyes looked darker, more intense.
"Close your eyes," I instructed.
He complied without question. I closed mine too, focusing on the connection between us. For three days, I'd experienced it as an invasion, something foreign intruding on my senses. Now I tried a different approach—reaching out instead of pulling back.
The effect was immediate and overwhelming. His presence flooded my awareness—not just physical sensations, but emotions too. Uncertainty. Hope. Longing. Fear.
"Can you feel that?" I whispered.
"Yes." His voice was rough. "It's like... you're everywhere."
I opened my eyes to find him watching me, his gaze so intimate it made my breath catch. Slowly, deliberately, I reached for his hand. Our fingers intertwined, and the sensation doubled—the warmth of his skin against mine, and the ghost feeling of my smaller hand in his larger one.
"Calla," he breathed, and I knew he was experiencing the same doubling—feeling both sides of our touch.
For the first time since our connection began, I didn't try to separate his feelings from mine. I let them blend, merge, become something new and shared between us.
"It's not just the SynSens, is it?" I asked softly. "This isn't just neural pathways crossing."
He shook his head, leaning closer. "I think we were always meant to feel this way. The machine just... helped us get there faster."
As midnight approached, we sat talking, hands still linked, sharing memories—not through words, but through the strange telepathic bond we'd developed. I showed him my childhood home, the garden where I first fell in love with flowers. He shared the mountain trails he'd hiked with his father, the feeling of standing at a summit.
Just after 2 AM, both our phones chimed simultaneously with an alert from the medical center:
"WARNING: Sensory resonance exceeding safe thresholds. Permanent neural bonding imminent. Please report immediately for emergency intervention."
We stared at the identical messages, then at each other.
"What do you want to do?" Bram asked, his voice barely audible.
Before I could answer, a second alert arrived:
"Final notice: If connection is not professionally terminated within remaining hours, sensory link may become permanent."
