It was still dark when she opened her eyes. She woke, suddenly and forcefully, as if waking from a nightmare. But she couldn't remember what she had been dreaming, or if she had been dreaming anything at all. All she knew was she had been asleep, and now she was awake. She stared up into the murky darkness of the ceiling, shadows playing tricks on her mind and she began to become aware that she was aware. Old memories slipped away in order to make room for new memories, different memories. She no longer intimately knew the feel of the sheets on her skin or the way the crack in the ceiling traveled in such a manner that it could have been the lines of the constellation Cassiopeia. It all looked foreign to her. And in a sudden rush of realization, she knew why. She inhaled sharply as she sat up in bed, the sheets falling away from her body. She pulled her legs up to her chest, her hands in her hair and she squeezed her eyes shut as the pain of knowing settled into the space between her eyes. It felt worse than the last time, she felt worse than the last time, and if she hadn't known better she would have sworn the glass of water on her nightstand vibrated on its own. She could hear it with her eyes closed and she took another breath, clearing her mind of anything, not even allowing herself to think of the pain. As the thoughts cleared from her mind, as the phantom vibrations she knew she couldn't be hearing dissipated, a single thought came to her mind, as clear as day, and it was the one thing she knew she could hold onto, the one thing that would make sense when nothing else would.

   Grant.

   The moment his name, the thought of him, came into her mind, she could think of nothing else. She scrambled out of bed before taking note of the time. Three in the morning. Too early. Too late? She didn't know how these things worked. She didn't know if there was a set time that they woke, if they woke at all. She began pacing as she suddenly feared that he wouldn't remember her, that he wouldn't have woken, that he would remain the person that he was when they were asleep, dormant. Danny. Deja vu. She rubbed the back of her neck with her hand, weighing the pros and cons of calling him, of leaving her apartment in the middle of the night to find him. But how would she find him? She didn't actually know where he lived and his shop would obviously be closed. But she could call. She scrambled across her bed to find her phone, charging, on the floor of the apartment and she swiped right across the screen to unlock it. She found her contacts and searched through the phone, scrolling until she found him. Her thumb hovered over his name but before she could press it, a buzzing sound broke through the silence of the apartment. It continued, persistent for three in the morning, and another memory came flooding back.

   Find me.

   I'll find you.

   She put her phone down, tucking unruly, woken from sleep strands of hair behind her ears. She should be wary of who could be buzzing to be let into her apartment at three in the morning, if what Grant had told her the last time she had seen him was true, there were others like them, others who might not be so kind to her, others who would want her for their own purpose. But she was not wary. She knew who it had to be. She walked through the apartment, slowly, then more quickly, until she reached the lock for the door down below. Without asking who it was, she pushed the release button and waited. If it was an ambush, then she would die a fool. But she knew, deep within, that he was following through on the promise he had made her, three weeks before. And she would follow through on hers: To put their collective pasts aside. She listened, standing beside her door, until she heard quick footsteps coming up the stairs. She waited, holding her breath, until there was a knock at the door, rapid, urgent. Again without thinking, she pulled the door open to find him standing on the other side. Relief washed over her and before she could say a word, before he could say a word, they were in each other's arms.

   Daisy woke with a start. She was tangled in her sheets, a cold sweat bathing her entire body. She couldn't catch her breath. She looked around wildly for the lamp on her bedside table and she clicked on the light, chasing away the shadows and the last vestiges of the dream. It felt real, too real. But the bed is empty except for her own body, the pillow beside hers cool to the touch. Her skin is hot but its not because it has been touched. It was a dream. The only problem with that assessment is, its too simple. Dreams, at least her dreams, don't leave her sweating. They don't ring so true. Never in her life has she remembered her dreams the way she has lately. But this dream, she knows deep down, isn't that. Its a memory. Its the only possible explanation. But a memory of what? Things like reincarnation and mental connections come into her mind. She's probably watched one too many episodes of Sense8 in a row. Yes. That's it. She's had a fever dream based on a television show. She's lonely, a feeling that grows by leaps and bounds every day, so she dreams up the ultimate encounter.

   Because she wakes knowing she has never felt like that before. And while its true she has never been the best at relationships or commitments, she'd sell her soul to be touched like in the dream, to be looked at like she was that damn important.

   But its just a dream, and in the immortal words of Dumbledore, it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.

   She turns out the light and settles back into sleep. Deep, dreamless sleep.

   After all, the dream, the feeling, they are not hers to hold onto.