𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | 𝐡.𝐬

ch4

You stumbled awake, your vision still adjusting. You looked up, and saw all types of pinks and whites, dappled with rare yellows. Turning your head around, trying to see if you could see any sort of form of humanity, you were only met with meadows of flowers that seemed to go on as far as the eye can see.

Your fingers seep in the petals, twirling the delicate blooms.

You heard a giggle from behind, and you recognize it almost immediately. It was childish and pure, filled to the brim with innocence.

You turn your head, and Hinata stares back peacefully. The sun shines brightly on his skin, it makes him look like he's bathing himself with diamonds and gold, a heaven far away from earth glowing in his eyes.

He smiles, and you let go of a breath that you didn't even know you were holding. You were absolutely certain that you were in the presence of an angel.

The bright blue cloudless sky contrasts his orange hair beautifully, and you suddenly found yourself unable to look away.

His lips were rosy, and his cheeks kissed in light pink.

"Hinata..." you start, trailing your hand out to touch him.

The nirvana in his eyes flickered again, and he looked a bit uncertain. The flare in his natural personality diminished as he reached his own hand out to touch yours. Hinata was so close, so vivid, so real. You held in a breath again. Right before your fingertips met,  you woke up.

"Huh?" You glanced around your empty room.

Everything was still swirling into reality, but the dream was flowing out of your fingers like sand, and you had to write it down quick.

What the hell. Oh my god. I cant forget about this.

You whipped out a small notebook and desperately grabbed a pen before scratching away at the papers, describing your dream about the precious sun boy.

I hate the sun.

I absolutely hate it.

But why does he feel so familiar? Why does he feel like a sol that I have never experienced before? Why does the  daylight feel so pleasant all of a sudden?

By the end of your ranted dream on the spare notebook, you leaned back to look at your work. You winced at how messy the handwriting looked, but you really wanted to remember this dream.

There were two words repeated over and over again at the end, and you were still asking yourself the same question.

Why him?