Kanesha — The Luminary Spirit with a Dreamer’s Palette

 

You've come across a person who's life is shaped by myth, emotion, and spiritual grace—where creativity isn’t performance, it’s communion.

Who am I

• My name is Kanesha and I am a storyteller whose words shimmer with ache, magic, and soul-deep truth. Her characters are conjured from lived experience, each one threaded with spiritual nuance and emotional clarity.

• The fictional worlds that I build spans a vibrant aesthetic spectrum: steampunk, spiritual symbolism, gaslight wild west moods, surreal dreamscapes, and mythic echoes. No single genre contains her—she stitches atmospheres together like constellations.

• My voice holds paradoxes with ease: reverent yet irreverent, poetic yet grounded, fiercely honest yet warmly tender.

What Moves Me

• Music is a form of soul-mapping—not tied to just a few names, but flowing across genres: classical, R&B, jazz, rock, and beyond. Every note is an emotional compass, guiding her through memory, longing, and creation.

• I honor nostalgia with ritualistic grace: word processors, handwritten pages, slow-burning ideas. I prefer depth over speed, essence over trend.

• My creative work turns longing into luminous art, whether through writing, digital dreamscapes, or symbolic collage. Emotional truth becomes visual poetry in her hands.

What do I longs For

• I seeks to be seen—not just through her craft, but as the soulful, complex woman behind it. My tenderness is fierce, my ache is sacred, her joy is earned.

• My heart calls for a partner who is “strange yet down to Earth”—someone who writes, who listens deeply, who isn’t afraid to walk through beauty and mystery with me. One who understands her neurodiversity, respects spiritual nuance, and stays when things get real.

If You Stay Awhile…

Come curious, not performative. I'm not chasing fireworks; I'm seeking resonance. If you value depth, invention, and emotional courage—if you write, reflect, and listen with reverence—you just might find yourself written into one of my stories.

Or better: into my life.

Psychic Love Letters

 

She sat down at her desk, a wave of unhappiness and boredom washing over her. Determined to do something—anything—to help her cope, she reached for a writing pad and a pen with erasable ink. With a sigh, she began to write.


Dear Husband,

I know that you do not exist, but I thought I would introduce myself and write to you anyway.

My name is Cassie Blake and I am your wife.

What can I tell you about myself?

I am thirty-nine years old, I live alone, unless you count the few collectible dolls and stuffed toy cat. I work in a small office, doing standard clerical work. It’s not exciting and doesn’t pay much, but at least it is something. I live in a decent extended stay hotel that isn’t too far away from where I work.

Sometimes I read, sometimes I write and listen to music. I do pray, although I don’t pray for much as there is not much that I ask for and not much that I would receive. I attend church every Sunday and I make it a habit to at least try and be grateful for what I have. Yet, it is not easy. Life is so hard and I am complex.

I hope that you are doing well. May God bless you.

Sincerely your wife,

Cassie Blake.

She read the letter, made a few corrections, then carefully tore it from the pad and placed it in a folder. Sliding the folder into her desk, she stood and walked over to the sofa. As she gazed out the window, tears fell—silent, inevitable, familiar.


II

A few days later, Cassie returned to her desk. She pulled out her writing pad and pen and began another letter.

Dear Husband,

The days are simple….I go to work, come home, maybe read and/or listen to music. I am still praying, but I just pray. As I said, I don’t ask for much as there is not much that I would receive. I am slowly accepting that I am too complex for anyone.

When I say that I am complex. There are things about me emotionally that not everyone is able to understand. Not only that, I don’t think like everyone else, be they Christian or not. I also have other shortcomings that make it hard for anyone to understand. I get tired of explaining myself to people, so I just retreat into myself. Honestly, I trust no one and probably won’t ever trust anyone.

I’ll write again soon.

Sincerely Your Wife,

Cassie Blake

She reviewed the letter, made her edits, and added it to the folder. After closing the desk drawer, she walked to the window. The sun was setting, painting the city in hues of gold and crimson. Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she did nothing to stop them.

III

A week later, Cassie sat at her desk again. The writing pad and pen felt heavier in her hands.

Dear Husband,

Not much has changed. Life goes on….I continue to pray just mere prayers for others. I’ve stopped praying for myself. I’m getting to the point where I don’t have any faith in anything for myself. I am too broken, too much of a mess. What trust I do have, it is not much. I don’t tell this to my family. They have issues of their own. And the last thing I want is for them to focus on me.

I still try make it a habit to read something spiritual be it the bible or some form of devotional. Do I think that I am out of God’s reach? No, I don’t...but I feel that there’s nothing he can do with me. At least, that what I feel and what I see.

I will not ever be whatever it is that I meant to become.

I will continue to pray for others. I am getting used to being just what I am….a mess.

I will write again.

Sincerely Your Wife,

Cassie Blake.

She reread the letter, corrected it, and added it to the growing pile in the folder. Turning on the classical music station, she let the haunting strains of Erik Satie’s Gymnopédie No. 1 fill the room. Sitting on the sofa, she watched the sun dip below the horizon, her tears falling in rhythm with the melody.


IV

Two weeks later, Cassie found herself at her desk again, pen in hand.

Dear Husband,

As you can guess, nothing much has changed. But as I said before, probably nothing ever will for me. I don’t have much to look forward to. Just a lot of the same. I am still having a conversation with God, but I don’t have anything good to say about myself. I come across a lot of books, devotional books that tell of giving trust to God. To stop trying to control things.

Honestly, there is nothing that I can control. Maybe the way I react, but whether I react correctly or not, it’s always the same. It’s just life….I go through it. I am aware that bitterness is creeping up on me. Maybe I don’t want to be happy, maybe I don’t want what God wants to give me. Maybe I just want to just exist.

To just go through life….Just praying, just keeping to myself….just being me. Whatever is supposed to be wonderful about me. I think I lost that a long time ago. Do I want to reclaim it? Not really and as to the why….it’s because I cannot ever be whatever it is that I am meant to be.

Just so, you know….I know that you are just some figment of my imagination. You’ve taken on many faces. Faces that I modeled after other faces that are known to the world. Your personality is one that I imagined in my head. Mostly perfect, maybe with some flaws….but mostly perfect. Nothing about you is real. It’s why I am writing these letters and will continue to write these letters.

There is no such thing as the perfect person, no perfect match, no perfect anything. At least not in this life. I am just taking things as they come. I know that God is watching me as I write this and no doubt that he is sad.

But it is how I feel, deep down. It will be what it will be.

I accept that I am broken, that I don’t have a lot of trust and that I will not ever be whatever it is to be. Life will go on as it always does.

Sincerely Your wife,

Cassie Blake


This time, after placing the letter in the folder, Cassie remained at her desk. The tears came again, but they no longer startled her. They were her constant companion, as reliable as the setting sun. Her only reprieve came from brief moments with family, but even they couldn’t save her from herself. She’d write another letter soon. It would be the same as always, because this was her life—unchanging, unrelenting, and inescapable.

It was nighttime, and Cassie Blake was asleep, drifting deep into a dream.

She stood in a room she didn’t recognize. It wasn’t hers. The space was bare—quiet and still—except for a lone chaise lounger and an old radio that stood in the corner. Sunlight streamed in through the window, soft and golden, but something was off. The light was moving—not like a flicker, but like it had purpose.

Curious, Cassie followed it with her eyes until it came to rest on a single sheet of paper lying on the floor.

She walked over, bent down, and picked it up. Turning it over, she found writing—delicate, refined, yet easy to read.

Dear Cassie,

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mikael Gustreve, and I am your husband.

I know you believed your letters were just thoughts spilled onto paper—words meant for no one. But I want you to know… I exist.

I can't explain how I know about your letters or why they reached me. All I can say is that God has a strange way of weaving paths together. Some things are simply beyond explanation.

But I am real. And I think you’re beautiful. I know we haven’t met, not truly, but still—I’m in love with you.

Please don’t despair. I will write again.

Sincerely Your Husband,

Mikael Gustreve

P.S. Please don’t rage or cry anymore. It pains me to see you that way.

◾◾◾◾◾◾◾

Cassie's eyes flew open.

She stared at the ceiling. She felt... off. Not frightened, not sad—just unsettled in a way she couldn’t explain. With a sigh, she got out of bed and went about her morning routine, doing her best to push the dream from her mind.

But it stayed with her.

All day, it crept into her thoughts, no matter how hard she tried to focus. There was something different about this dream—something that felt less like imagination and more real.

Still, dreams were just dreams. And she’d long given up the idea dreams had any significant meaning.

That night, back home and curled up with a new book, Cassie tried to read. But her eyes drifted. The words blurred. The pages turned, but she hadn’t absorbed a thing.

The dream wouldn’t leave her.

It had been years since a dream had clung to her like this—soft, haunting, and impossibly vivid.

And in the quiet of her apartment, one question echoed louder than the rest:

Why?

II

Three nights later, Cassie is asleep again.

This time, she dreams she’s aboard a cruise ship. The air is warm, the sky stretched in hues of pink and gold. Laughter drifts in the background, voices buzz and blend together—but despite being surrounded by people, she feels completely alone.

She sits at a small table on the outer deck, sea breeze brushing against her skin. On the table, as if waiting for her, lies an envelope with her name written in a familiar hand.

She reaches for it, heart fluttering, and opens it.

Inside is another letter.

Dear Cassie,

I know you still feel alone. Like no one really sees you. Like no one truly understands.

But I want to ask one thing of you…

Please smile more.

I know it feels like you have no reason to. But I love your smile. I love when you laugh. I love when you feel good about yourself—because you deserve to.

It hurts me to see you so often sad, carrying pain like it’s stitched into your soul.

I know life hasn’t been easy. You’ve been through more than most people realize. People have let you down, passed over the chance to know the real you. And yes, I know you carry regrets—things you wish you could go back and change.

But ask yourself this… even if you could go back, even if you could rewrite those moments—would your life be any better?

Please, just think about what I said.

I love you, Cassie Baby.

I’ll write to you again.

Always,

Your Husband,

Mikael Gustreve

◾◾◾◾◾◾◾

Cassie woke gently, blinking at the ceiling in the stillness of early morning.

Like before, she felt strange. But not heavy—this time there was a flicker of lightness in her chest. A quiet warmth that curled up inside her.

She smiled, just a little.

But the smile faded almost as quickly as it came.

That soft light? It never lasted. It never stayed.

She climbed out of bed and walked to the window, looking out into the dim, sleepy world.

Her eyes welled with tears.

“Dear God,” she whispered, “I don’t know what’s going on. But it won’t last. These sweet dreams You’ve let me have—they’re comforting, yes. But that’s all they are.”

A pause. Her voice trembled.

“Thank You for trying to cheer me up. But… we both know there’s nothing special about me. Nothing special is ever going to happen.”

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, then turned away from the window.

III

Seven nights later, Cassie had fallen asleep on the couch, the book she’d been reading resting loosely in her hand.

In her dream, she stood outside an enormous castle.

The sight puzzled her.

The structure rose like something out of a fairytale—grand, ancient, and breathtaking. It stretched across acres of green, rolling land. Above, the sky was a perfect blue canvas dotted with soft white clouds. Sunlight bathed everything in a golden glow.

Where was she?

She turned in slow circles, trying to place the surroundings. It didn’t feel like America. Europe, maybe—but where?

She took a steadying breath, exhaled, and walked toward the castle gates. As she approached, the massive doors creaked open before she could even lift a hand to knock.

It gave her pause.

“What in the world…?” she muttered.

Something pulled at her—gently, wordlessly beckoning her forward.

So, she stepped inside.

The doors shut behind her with a heavy, final sound.

Cassie stood in a grand entryway, quiet and dimly lit. In the center sat a round table. On it rested an envelope—unlike the others.

It shimmered faintly. White gold in color, sealed with a golden wax crest.

Her name was written on the front in that same elegant handwriting.

She picked it up with both hands, turned it over, and opened it carefully.

Inside was a letter.

Dear Cassie,

Please—don’t let your thoughts dwell on the worst. Not everything is lost. Not everything is bleak.

God is with you. He always has been.

I want you to have faith—not just in God, but in the life still waiting for you. I know it’s hard. I know you feel like nothing good lies ahead… that the things you’ve lost, the dreams you carry, are fading.

You think you have no purpose. But you do.

There’s something you long to do—something you dream of making real. But fear holds you back. You don’t know where to begin. You’re scared no one will understand.

My darling Cassie… don’t lose faith.

I love you.

Please hold on—to your hope, your vision, your belief that your story isn't over.

You are the love of my life.

My soulmate.

Even my queen—as I’ve often written you to be.

Yes, Cassie. I write, too. And I have written countless pages filled with thoughts of you. You’ve been a queen in every story, the one who shines brightest beside me.

I love you.

God loves you.

Have faith.

Sincerely, Your Husband,

Mikael Gustreve

◾◾◾◾◾◾◾

Cassie jolted awake, breath caught in her chest.

For a long moment, she sat on the couch, unmoving.

The dream... it lingered like fog. It hadn’t just felt real—it had been real, in some unexplainable way.

She glanced at the clock. 11:48 PM.

Still groggy, she set her book aside, then rose and headed to her bedroom.

After brushing her teeth and settling into bed, she turned off the lamp. Moonlight streamed through a slit in the blinds, casting faint silver shapes across the floor.

She stared toward the window and whispered into the quiet room:

“Mikael Gustreve… are you real? Or just a figment of my imagination?”

Frequencies of The Heart

 

The radio blasted an old tune from Katria’s childhood—Brandon’s Girl. She bobbed her head to the rhythm and sang along as she finished folding laundry and putting it away. A smirk tugged at her lips as a memory surfaced.

She used to have a mild crush on the singer—not enough to call herself a fan, but enough to blush a little whenever his songs came on. Brandon’s Girl and another track, Veiled Intentions, were the only two songs of his she’d ever heard on the radio.

With the chores done, Katria switched off the radio and grabbed a book. But as she tried to read, the song kept looping in her mind, making it hard to focus.

“Oh God, of all songs to get stuck in my head,” she said with a laugh.

To clear her mind, she put on music—specifically a remixed version of Erik Satie’s Gymnopédie No. 1, her go-to whenever she needed to center herself. There was something about that piece—its softness, its stillness—that always settled her spirit. Within moments, she was lost in her book.

When Katria finally glanced at the clock, her eyes widened.

“Five already?” she muttered. “It was just 3:30 when I started. That saying about getting lost in a book—definitely not a joke.”

She set the book aside and turned off the music, heading into the kitchen. And just like that, Brandon’s Girl started playing in her head again. Katria shook her head with a weary smile.

“Heavenly Father,” she said playfully, “mind answering a question? Why is this song stuck in my head again?”

She knew she wasn’t likely to get an answer—not right then anyway. Still, she began preparing dinner, something she’d grown used to doing alone. It was a quiet, lingering reminder of her reality. Her marriage had ended, and she’d felt adrift ever since. Thankfully, the support of her family and new church community had helped ease the ache.

But sometimes, she still wondered.

“Lord,” she whispered, “if I’m meant to love again… I hope it’s soon.”

••••••

In a loft penthouse overlooking the city, Ronan Cross sat on his leather couch, gently strumming his guitar. His green eyes flicked toward the horizon, where the sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose.

For years, Ronan had lived life in the spotlight—singing to sold-out crowds, recording albums, touring across continents. The frenzy of fanatical fame had dimmed over time, but his name still carried weight. He remained recognizable, his loyal fans unwavering.

And yet… he was lonely.

The years of constant movement—flights, studios, stages, hotel rooms—had taken their toll. Now, surrounded by luxury, he felt the emptiness creeping in. So much, and yet… so little.

He set his guitar aside and rose to his feet, walking slowly to the large window that framed the city skyline. As the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon, his thoughts drifted—again—to her. The face that haunted his dreams. A woman with warm brown eyes, eyes that seemed to understand and forgive, eyes that promised peace. He had seen her in dreams for years. Always her.

Was she real?

“Who are you?” he murmured, voice low. “Where are you? Are you waiting for me, too?”

He leaned an arm against the cool glass and rested his forehead against it, eyes closed. The silence offered no reply—just the quiet hum of a city winding down.

Lifting his head, he stared out into the golden dusk.

“You’re out there somewhere,” he said with quiet certainty. “And I know this sounds insane, but… I love you. I always have.”

II

Katria sat quietly in the backseat of the Uber, watching the city roll by as the radio played softly in the background. She caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror and studied her reflection for a moment.

A lovely woman with chin-length dark brown hair, warm brown eyes, and a rich toffee complexion that reflected her Black and mixed heritage. Her figure was a well-proportioned, full-figured silhouette—voluptuous, some might say.

She didn’t consider herself unattractive. Still, she wouldn’t call herself a head-turner either, despite the occasional compliments from men who clearly thought otherwise.

As the Uber glided through the city streets, the upbeat voice of a local radio DJ filled the car.

“Heya City People!

Marah Pearson here! I hope you're having a great Monday morning on your way to work. Stay safe out there—it’s 9:28 a.m., and we’ve got a gorgeous day ahead. Sunshine and good vibes! And now for some exciting news… Ronan Cross is coming to town! That’s right—he’ll be performing this weekend at the Fairview Outdoor Convention Center. Want free tickets? Be callers 10, 14, or 20 and you’ll score a pair!”

The driver chuckled and turned the radio down a bit.

“You ever heard of Ronan Cross?” he asked.

“Yes, I have,” Katria replied.

He glanced at her in the rearview mirror, brows raised.

“You don’t look old enough to know his music.”

Katria let out a light scoff.

“If you grew up watching MTV and Video Jukebox like I did, then yes… I know who Ronan Cross is.”

The driver, who was clearly a bit older than her, looked slightly sheepish.

“My bad. Most people younger than me don’t know musicians like him.”

“I’m not that young,” she said with a small smile. “I’m forty-six.”

He grinned. “You’re not that old, either.”

“Very true.”

They shared a brief, companionable silence before the DJ returned.

“Speaking of Ronan Cross,” Marah said, *“here’s one of his more underrated songs. It’s a beautiful track called ‘When Hope Finds Its Way.’”

A gentle rock melody drifted through the car, followed by a husky, emotional voice. Katria leaned back, her attention immediately drawn to the lyrics.

The song spoke of letting go instead of clinging, of trusting that love would find its way back after loss. It wrapped around her heart with quiet intensity, pulling memories of her broken marriage to the surface. The pain. The struggle to move on. But also… the hope.

Tears welled in her eyes.

“Liking the song?” the driver asked, glancing at her again.

“Yes,” she said softly, wiping her cheek. “It’s… speaking to me.”

He nodded with a warm smile.

“Maybe the Man upstairs is trying to tell you something through it.”

Katria smiled through the emotion.

“That wouldn’t surprise me one bit. I believe God speaks to us in all kinds of ways.”

The driver’s smile widened.

“You’re a believer, I take it?”

“I am,” she said, nodding. “I was lost for a while. God brought me back to Him—in the strangest way. But maybe it had to be strange. Maybe it was the only way I would’ve heard Him.”

He nodded in agreement.

“God works in mysterious ways.”

“That He does,” Katria replied, her voice calm, steady—and full of quiet faith.

••••••

Katria arrived at work and stepped into the modest yet bustling office of a local logistics company where she worked as a receptionist. As usual, she greeted her co-workers with a warm smile and a few cheerful hellos before settling into her routine.

But as the day wore on, the song she’d heard in the Uber—When Hope Finds Its Way—kept echoing in her mind. It tugged at her heart, quietly stirring emotions she hadn’t quite processed.

When a brief lull came mid-morning, she slipped away into one of the empty conference rooms. Closing the door gently behind her, she sat down and bowed her head.

“Heavenly Father,” she whispered, voice trembling, “I know I can be stubborn. I hold on to things I should’ve let go of long ago. I’m going to need your help. Help me let go. Help me stand tall… and keep walking.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she pressed her forehead to her clasped hands.

Then, clear as a breeze through still air, a thought drifted through her spirit:

“Katria, love will make its way back to you. Have faith.”

A soft smile found its way to her lips as she nodded.

“Thank you, Heavenly Father… Amen.”

She lingered in the quiet for a moment longer, then took a deep breath, stood up, and returned to the reception desk.

As she rounded the corner, one of her co-workers appeared in her path.

“Kat, I have a question,” the woman said with a mischievous gleam.

Katria raised an eyebrow.

“Joanna Bennett… what do you have up your sleeve now?” she asked with a smirk.

Joanna, with her pixie-cut blonde hair, lively green eyes, and fair, sun-kissed complexion, was as spirited as she was sharp-tongued. She and their no-nonsense supervisor, Renata Marcus, were infamous for calling out inflated egos. On occasion, Joanna would execute harmless but satisfying pranks on those who deserved a dose of humility. Renata often chose to conveniently “look the other way.”

“Nothing bad,” Joanna said with mock innocence.

“I hope not,” Katria teased as she slid back into her chair.

Joanna leaned closer, lowering her voice just slightly.

“Do you know who Ronan Cross is?”

“Yes, I do” said Katria. “Why?”

“Tim’s been asked to provide security for Ronan Cross’s show this weekend,” Joanna said, eyes gleaming. “He scored two tickets—and backstage passes. Want to come with me?”

Katria blinked, surprised. “Sure. I don’t have anything planned this weekend.”

“Awesome!” Joanna grinned, clearly thrilled.

Just then, Renata Marcus approached the reception desk with the kind of expression that made both women straighten up. Something had definitely gone down.

“Dare I even ask?” Katria said cautiously.

Renata—striking as ever with her long auburn hair pulled into a thick braided ponytail, warm brown eyes, and a creamy fair complexion—crossed her arms and sighed.

“Terry Marshall’s been fired,” she said flatly.

Joanna let out a triumphant, “About time!”

Katria covered her face with one hand while Renata chuckled.

There was no love lost between Joanna and Terry. The warehouse worker had a reputation for being sleazy, and Joanna had never hidden her disgust.

At that moment, Terry stormed past them, rage written all over his face.

“You’ll all be sorry,” he growled.

Renata gave him a cool glance.

“We’re trembling in our heels,” she said dryly.

Katria remained silent, watching him head for the exit.

Terry slammed the door behind him, stomped to his car, and peeled off with a screech of tires.

Renata shook her head.

“He’s all bark and no bite.”

“Figured that out ages ago,” Joanna said with a shrug.

“Anyway,” Renata continued, her tone returning to businesslike, “just wanted to give you both a heads-up. Carry on.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Katria and Joanna said in unison.

“So, what time?” Katria.

Realizing that she was asking about the concert, Joanna replied, “6pm, the show starts at 7:30PM.”

“Looking forward to it,” Katria said.

III

Road of Faith Church was holding a support group meeting for those experiencing hardship—whether emotional or financial. Katria had started attending after she joined the church. It gave her something to focus on besides just going to work and then heading home.

Over time, she became friends with Rosaria Cortez and her husband, Marcus Bennett—Joanna’s older brother—who also served as an associate minister.

As the meeting continued and several attendees shared their stories. Katria’s mind drifted off. The song she had heard earlier was still playing in her head. Then a memory – when she was a teenager, she had the idea of writing to her husband, whoever he was. She thought it would be an awesome idea, but she had not gotten around to it.

“Would anyone else like to speak? Katria...do you have anything to say?” Pastor Forte asked.

“Just that I had a talk with God today while I was at work. I admitted that I’m stubborn, that there are things that I should have let go of, and that I need help with letting go. I asked for help to stand tall and to keep moving on with my life,” she said.

Pastor Forte smiled. “One of the things I teach everyone is that God is always available to talk. Whatever you need help with, He will help – all you need to do is ask and trust. Let Him do the rest.”

Everyone nodded and said Amen.

After the meeting, Rosaria stopped Katria as she was about to leave.

“It’s good that you spoke, Kat,” Rosaria said.

Katria nodded. “Yeah, but honestly…it’s hard to let go and just put everything in God’s hands.”

“That it is,” said Rosaria.

“I know that it hasn’t been easy – your marriage breaking down and then ending. And I know you always question if there was anything that you could have done differently. But trust me, if there were another way, God would have shown it to you. Believe that”

Katria nodded. “I do my best to do that. But sometimes, when I look back at things, I’m always analyzing – wondering”

“When that happens, go to God” said Rosaria.

Katria nodded once again.

After a few more moments of speaking. Katria’s Uber arrived. She said bye to everyone and got inside.

••••••

Katria arrived home to find her small apartment just as she had left it—sofa, coffee table, the dining table tucked beside the kitchen, and her bedroom just a few steps away. She closed the door behind her, locked it, and headed into the bedroom, shrugging off the black blazer she had worn over a pink blouse and a calf-length black skirt. Kicking off her wedge heels, she flicked on the radio.

“It’s 7 p.m.—hope everyone made it home from work! Time to unwind and enjoy the rest of your evening. And if you want free tickets to see Ronan Cross in concert this weekend, we’ve still got some! Be callers 7, 11, or 15, and you’ll score two tickets plus backstage passes!”

Katria smiled to herself as she hung up her blazer and tucked her shoes away. She was already set to see Ronan Cross this weekend. It would be her first time seeing him live. She had only been a kid when his debut single hit the charts. Over the years, whenever one of his music videos popped up, she’d catch herself singing along—and maybe even admitting, if only to herself, that he was incredibly handsome.

One of his classic hits began to play, and Katria danced around the room for a moment before curiosity nudged her toward her computer. Once it booted up, she opened a browser and typed in his name. Dozens of links, articles, and videos flooded the screen. Still, she clicked selectively, hesitant to dive too deep.

Why? She couldn’t quite explain.

Maybe she didn’t want to know too much about him. She wasn’t a real fan—just someone who liked a few of his songs. That was all.

Then, without warning, a strange feeling washed over her. Her thoughts drifted to Ronan Cross—thoughts that began sweetly romantic and quickly turned almost… erotic.

She shook her head, snapping herself out of it.

“I really need to get out more,” she muttered.

••••••

Ronan had just finished packing his luggage. A sixteen-month tour awaited him. While he was mostly excited, a quiet unease tugged at the edges of his thoughts.

He walked over to the window and looked out at the sky. Dusk was settling in, painting the horizon with hues of fading light. He stood there in silence—watching, waiting—until something began to form.

A face.

Her face. So beautiful, so familiar—yet unknown. Her eyes, full of warmth, also carried a sorrow that pierced straight through him. He didn’t know why, but Ronan felt something was wrong.

“Where are you? Why are you so sad?” he whispered, eyes locked on the vision.

He lifted his hand and placed it gently on the windowpane.

“Wherever you are... I hope you can hear me. Please don’t be sad. Whatever broke your heart—it can heal. Maybe... just maybe, I can help you mend it.”

For a long moment, he said nothing more, simply gazing at her fading image reflected in the glass.

“I love you,” he breathed.

And then—she was gone.

A soft voice whispered through the stillness:

“She waits for you. Yet she does not know. She will know. But take care—she is wounded.”

Ronan closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“God, please watch over her. Keep me safe while I’m on this tour. And if our paths are meant to cross—mine and the woman whose face I see—let our hearts be open to one another. Amen.”

IV

The day of the concert had finally arrived. Katria stood in front of her closet, rifling through hangers, trying to decide what to wear. For some reason, nothing felt right. She tried on several combinations of tops and bottoms, but none of them worked.

Eventually, she gave up—at least for now. It was only 3:30 p.m., and the concert wouldn’t start until 7:30. She wandered into the living room and flopped onto the sofa, picking up the book she had been reading and trying to lose herself in its pages.

“Katria, why are you being so silly about what to wear to a concert?” she scolded herself. “It’s just a concert! Who are you trying to impress?”

An hour slipped by before her smartphone rang.

“Hello?” Katria answered.

“Hey, Kat, it’s Joanna. Are you almost ready?” her friend asked.

Katria glanced at the time. It was nearly 5:30 p.m.

“Uh, yeah. I should be ready by the time you get here,” she replied.

“Okay, cool. Be there soon!” said Joanna, and the call ended.

Setting her book aside, Katria headed back to her bedroom. A strange nervous energy crept through her. Her shoulders tensed, her chest tightened.

Why in the world am I feeling like this? she wondered.

She paused, closed her eyes, and took a few deep breaths to steady herself. Finally, she landed on an outfit that felt right: a black polka dot button-down shirt over a white tank top, jeans, and black wedge heels. She added a touch of makeup and neatened her hair. After giving herself a final once-over in the mirror, she slung her purse over her shoulder and stepped back into the living room.

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

“Yes?” she called out.

“It’s Joanna!”

Katria giggled as she opened the door. “Did you have to loudly announce yourself?”

Joanna grinned. “I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.”

Katria rolled her eyes playfully. “God help this woman.”

Joanna laughed. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I am,” Katria said, grabbing her purse and stepping out of the apartment.

••••••

The Fairview Outdoor Convention Center was quickly filling up. Fans of Ronan Cross—both longtime followers and new admirers—hurried to their seats, buzzing with excitement.

Backstage, Ronan sat at his dressing table, staring at his reflection. His face hadn’t changed much over the years—just more refined, more mature. Still handsome. His long black hair now held a touch of gray, barely noticeable unless you looked closely. Dressed in a black sleeveless shirt, jeans, and boots, he embodied the rock-and-roll aesthetic with ease.

He snickered to himself.

“Some would call me a faded rock star trying to hold on... but they never really knew me. They never knew the truth.”

Suddenly, tension gripped his body. His muscles tightened without warning.

“What’s going on?” he wondered, alarmed.

Thinking it might be a panic attack, he reached for his medication. But before he could take it, a vision flashed across his mind.

A woman—dark hair, deep brown eyes, and flawless skin the color of rich café au lait. She was beautiful. Ethereal. And then, just as quickly, the vision vanished.

“She’s here,” Ronan murmured.

A knock at the door pulled him back to the moment.

“Five minutes, Mr. Cross,” the stage manager said as he peeked in.

“Thank you,” Ronan replied.

He clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and bowed his head in prayer.

“Dear God, be with me as I step out on that stage. Bless my voice, bless my hands as I play, and bless the band. Keep everyone in attendance safe. And, God… one more thing—if it’s your will, please bring me and the woman I’ve been dreaming of together. Amen.”

He stood, slipped on a dark denim jacket, grabbed his guitar, and made his way to the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Fairview is proud to present… Ronan Cross!”

The opening notes of Brandon’s Girl rang out, and the crowd erupted. The stage lights came up, revealing Ronan Cross in all his iconic glory.

Screams echoed from the audience, especially from the women, as others clapped and sang along. Joanna and Katria exchanged excited glances. Among the crowd, they were some of the younger faces, but neither cared. They were too caught up in the moment, singing at the top of their lungs.

As the concert went on, however, Katria began to experience waves of unease—moments of tension that almost slipped into panic. Joanna noticed her friend becoming distant, distracted, like she was drifting in and out of the experience.

During intermission, they headed to the ladies’ room.

“Kat, are you okay?” Joanna asked, genuine concern in her voice.

“I don’t know… I feel off,” Katria admitted, letting out a shaky breath as her body finally began to relax.

“Did you eat anything today?” Joanna asked gently.

“Yeah, I did. Pasta and meatballs,” Katria said. Her body had finally relaxed, and her breathing was back to normal.

“Weird how you were just in and out of it,” Joanna said, studying her friend.

“I know, right? One of the strangest anxiety attacks I’ve ever had,” Katria replied.

“Do you have any idea what triggered it?” Joanna asked.

“No clue,” Katria said, shaking her head. “I was fine... then the first song started, and suddenly I was all over the place.”

“Maybe you have a connection with Ronan Cross,” Joanna teased with a grin.

Katria gave her a look like she’d lost her mind.

“What?” Joanna said, laughing and shrugging. “Stranger things have happened.”

“And here I thought I was the only one who came up with crazy thoughts,” Katria said, chuckling.

“Stranger things have happened,” Joanna repeated with a playful smirk.

“True, but what you said is highly unlikely,” Katria replied. “Even though… for some reason, the idea almost sounds… I don’t know what the word is I’m looking for.”

“Attention: The show will be resuming in ten minutes. Repeat, the show will resume in ten minutes.”

“We better get back,” Joanna said.

Katria nodded, and together they left the ladies' room and headed back to their seats.

••••••

Backstage, Ronan sat at the dressing table, his head resting in his hands as his heart pounded in his chest. Throughout the first half of the show, his heartbeat had been erratic—frenetic. Though he was no stranger to adrenaline on stage, this felt different. Deeper. Almost spiritual.

Then, without warning, another vision flashed through his mind.

This time, he saw himself standing in the middle of nowhere. The landscape was stark and dreamlike—white desert sand stretching in every direction, broken only by a small, winding river. He was barefoot, dressed in white: a button-down shirt and loose-fitting pants. He looked around, unsure of where he was.

In the distance, he noticed someone walking toward him.

As the figure drew closer, he realized it was a woman. She, too, wore white—a flowing dress that fell to her ankles, slightly off the shoulder. And then he recognized her. It was her. The woman who had been appearing in his dreams.

She was here.

He walked quickly toward her, closing the distance.

“Hi,” she said softly when they stood face to face.

“Hello,” he replied.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said at last.

“I think I’ve been looking for you too,” she replied.

Without hesitation, Ronan took her hands and pulled her gently into his arms. She rested her head against his chest, her arms wrapping around him as his embrace tightened around her.

“Baby, I know your heart is wounded. You feel lost,” he murmured. “I don’t need to know what happened.”

He felt her body tremble as quiet sobs escaped her. She clung to him, and he held her tighter in return.

“I’m here, baby,” he whispered.

Suddenly, Ronan found himself back in the dressing room.

He blinked, realizing he had been in some sort of trance. The door swung open.

“Two minutes,” the stage manager called.

“I’m coming,” Ronan said, rising to his feet, still shaken—but somehow steadier than before.

••••••

In the audience, Joanna’s husband, Tim, stood with medics gathered around Katria. She had fainted earlier, but was now conscious and alert.

“Katria, maybe we should leave,” Joanna suggested gently.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Katria insisted, sitting upright.

“Are you sure?” Joanna asked, still concerned.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Katria repeated, offering a small, reassuring smile.

“Okay,” Joanna said, though her tone remained cautious.

“If anything else happens, buzz me,” Tim added.

“No problem, babe,” Joanna replied, giving him a quick smile.

She turned back to Katria. “What is going on with you?”

Katria shook her head, shrugging. “I don’t know. I’ve just been feeling… off all day.”

Just then, the opening notes of When Hope Finds Its Way began to play. The lights rose slowly, and Ronan stood center stage, singing.

As his eyes scanned the crowd, they landed on her—the woman from his dreams. There she was, real and present.

Katria felt it too. She noticed Ronan looking straight at her. A gentle shiver ran through her body—not from fear, but from something else. A sense of anticipation. Recognition.

From that moment on, neither Ronan nor Katria looked away.

For the rest of the concert, their eyes remained locked—two strangers caught in a connection that neither of them could explain.

V

Backstage—so many people.

Katria raised an eyebrow at the number of groupies swarming the area. Most of them were her age or older, yet dressed in outfits that looked better suited for someone in their late teens or early twenties.

“Is it just me,” Joanna whispered, leaning in, “or are some of these groupies basically screaming, ‘I’m desperate, wearing clothes that belong to my twenty-something daughter—but take me anyway’?”

Katria smirked, stifling a laugh.

“What?” Joanna asked, grinning with a knowing sparkle in her eyes.

“I’m going to stick with the old adage: ‘If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all,’” Katria replied, the laughter still in her voice.

“And as my mother would say,” Joanna added, “If you’re too old to wear it, then you shouldn’t be wearing it.”

It took all of Katria’s self-restraint not to burst out laughing.

“Jo, you’re going to end up getting into a fight with someone,” Katria said with a snicker.

Joanna shrugged casually. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Katria stifled a laugh just as Joanna’s husband walked up. Tim stood tall, with dark wavy hair that fell to his shoulders, hazel eyes, and a deep complexion that hinted at his mixed heritage. He shook his head at Joanna and grinned.

“Jo, what did you say this time?” he asked.

Joanna gave him an innocent smile, while Katria quietly chuckled.

“Just making an observation,” Joanna said sweetly.

Tim crossed his arms, still smiling. “If Katria’s laughing, I’m guessing that ‘observation’ was pretty blunt.”

“I’m going to walk around for a bit,” Katria said, still smiling.

“Don’t go too far,” Tim replied.

Katria nodded and headed off.

••••••

As Katria wandered backstage, that odd feeling returned.

“Hello.”

She looked up—and there he was. Ronan Cross.

“Hi,” she replied, nearly starstruck.

He approached her slowly until they were standing face to face.

“I’m Katria Vinson,” she said, her voice soft.

“I know,” he replied, gazing into her eyes.

Katria raised an eyebrow, on the verge of asking how he knew her name—but something inside her stopped her. Somehow, she knew he was telling the truth.

Without a word, he took her hands and gently pulled her into his arms. At that moment, a vision flashed in Katria’s mind—the same one she had seen earlier when she fainted. She was walking through a white desert landscape, and there, she had come face to face with a man.

That man was Ronan Cross.

“We know each other, don’t we?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Ronan smiled and gently caressed her face. “I’ve been dreaming about you. For years. I just didn’t know who you were.”

Katria smiled through the haze of disbelief. “Oddly enough, I think I’ve been waiting for you.”

Then suddenly, as if drawn by an unseen force, a passionate kiss exploded between them. When it ended, they stood still, lost in each other’s gaze.

“I’m going to hate leaving you,” Ronan said quietly.

“I know,” Katria whispered, as tears began to fall. “But… what can we do?”

Ronan gently wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“Let’s not think about that right now,” he said. “We can worry about tomorrow when it comes.”

Katria smiled, and Ronan took her hand, leading her away—into whatever came next.

••••••

What came next—three months later.

Ronan and Katria were married. They had eloped in Las Vegas.

The news caught many off guard. While some expressed displeasure over their sudden decision, others were genuinely supportive.

Now, standing on the white sandy beaches of the Caribbean in the early morning light, Ronan and Katria watched the sun rise. His arms were wrapped around her from behind, holding her close. Her hands rested gently on his.

“I’ve always wanted to watch the sun come up,” she said softly.

“I’ve seen the sunrise many times during my travels,” Ronan replied. “But I was always alone. Now, with you in my arms, I want to watch it every day.”

Katria began to cry, overwhelmed. “I would love that.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he said, his voice full of promise. “From now on.”