Requiem For A Dream Novels & Stories

Two souls tangled for centuries, now standing at the edge of their last chance. But no amount of training kept the nightmares away. Every night, Lena slipped into dreams of other lives old faces, forgotten places, the shadow of loss clinging to her like a second skin. And with each night, the dreams pressed in darker, heavier, until she woke gasping and drenched in sweat. And every night, Damien was pulled into them against his will. He arrived at her door again on the seventh night, shirt half-buttoned, sweat beading across his temple, chest rising and falling in rapid breaths.

“It was just a dream, Vivian. Just a dream. Damian is alive… he’s still fighting, and you’re here. That’s what matters.” I nodded, but the ache remained, raw and insistent. The intensity of the dream, the closeness, the intimacy, the terror—it lingered, a ghost haunting my heart. I pressed the blanket to my face, letting my tears fall silently, mourning the phantom loss while holding onto the fragile, precious reality that Damian was still alive. I whispered his name into the quiet room, a prayer, a plea, a tether to reality: “Damian… please stay with me. Please… stay.”

Dream’s father looked seconds away from exploding. But Dream? He only pulled me closer, his smirk daring anyone to question him. And me? I stood there wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. This wasn’t a fake relationship. This was a death sentence in disguise. Then Dream leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t refuse, Secretary Rivera,” he said softly. “Unless you want to die tonight.” He paused, his tone turning colder. “Actually, now that I think about it… you really don’t have a choice.”

His mom's last words echoed too late. Grief swallowed him whole. Dreams blurred with reality. In those dreams, Ruth was always there—smiling, alive. But when he woke, it was just him. Again and again, he chose the dream. Until, a month later, he turned on the gas, laid down... And never woke up.

“I feel it.” Silence stretches between us. “You were my right hand,” he says carefully. “My executioner when it came to it. My shield always.” “And you trusted me.” “Yes.” “And I betrayed you.” His gaze hardens. “You disappeared.” That’s not denial. That’s grief. “Why do I keep dying in my dreams?” I whisper. “Because you almost did,” he answers. --- THE THIRD DREAM — THE KISS This one is quieter. We’re alone in a room lit by city glow and rain-streaked windows. My hands are shaking as I clean blood from his knuckles.

Akira replied, then down from the guardrail and stood in front of Lee Umji. "It must have been quite a while after waking out of the coma, before she came here, right?" Lee Umji guess thought of something. Akira nodded slowly. "How do you know?" Lee Umji took a deep breath. "I think Kim Hana wrote the Daydream script like a will. But before finishing it, my body fell back into a coma."

Dim, cold, constant. Eamon walked ahead of me, one hand extended like he could feel the air shifting before his fingers touched it. Mark lingered behind, silent as a ghost. His presence still burned against the back of my neck. I didn’t turn to look at him. I couldn’t. Not after last night’s dream ,the fire, the betrayal in his eyes, the way he wept even as he struck me down. It had been just a dream. Hadn’t it? My boots crunched over bone dry moss. I glanced to the side and saw what I thought were stones at first until I realized they were skulls. Small. Animal. Possibly. The forest here didn’t just feel dead. It felt wrong. Like it had been rewritten by something ancient and cruel.

Raymond, grim-faced, pushed aside anyone who tried to stop him and led Melanie to the hospital. He knelt before the lifeless Bethany. "Mom, don't worry about Melanie. I'll take good care of her and make her the happiest woman in the world. As long as I'm alive, I'll make sure neither you nor Melanie suffers." It would seem that the promises he made were only good for seven years. Feeling like a chunk of her heart had been ripped out, Melanie opened her mouth to say something, but the tears came first. So this was what being in agony felt like.

Yet in my last life, when everyone else stood by coldly, Miles had been the one to pull me back in the end. “So...” I slowed my voice. “Do you want to do this with me?” Miles nodded hard. “Yes!” Then he repeated it, as if afraid I would not believe him. “Yes, I do.” Looking at him, I suddenly felt that this decision in this life was probably the right one. “But...” Miles seemed to remember something and asked carefully, “Are you really not going to answer Mr. Pierce’s calls anymore?” “No.” “Then... what if he calls again?”

My eyes come down from the ceiling and find his face and his expression hasn’t changed, which is the training, but his hand has gone still, which is the man. “That’s the third time you’ve described a dream with this content,” he says. His voice is steady. “I want to explore what the dream is telling you about your current needs.” “It’s telling me I want to fuck my therapist.” “It may be telling you that you’re ready for sexual intimacy again and that the safety of this environment is allowing that desire to surface. The object of the desire – me – is likely a projection.”