Shared Skies, Separate Worlds

The weird dreams continued. They were less startling to Mateo, more like entering a parallel frequency that buzzed beneath his waking fatigue. He would find himself standing in large, echoing areas rather than backstage; occasionally it would be an empty arena with rows of seats extending into shadow, and other times it would be a clean, minimalist room with only one wall made of glass, looking out over a vast city that was glistening with night lights he couldn't identify. Her presence was what they had in common. Though not always apparent, there was a sense of mutual observation and a subliminal knowledge that he wasn't by himself in the dream world.

The rough paper felt reassuringly familiar under his fingertips as he sketched again one night in the dream, but the setting was completely incorrect—one of those white, sterile chambers he now connected with her. He heard a faint humming as he focused on the peeling blue paint of a fishing boat's battered prow. It was a plain tune, strange and eerie. She was sitting on a slick, contemporary seat that didn't look at all like it belonged next to his imagined boat when he looked up.

The words seemed heavy in his tongue, as speech can occasionally feel in dreams, so he inquired, "What is that?"

She seemed astonished that he had spoken, and she stopped humming. "Oh. I simply couldn't get it out of my thoughts. Her eyes, unguarded by distance or stage makeup, seemed startlingly direct as she tilted her head. "Don't you draw all the time?"

Uncomfortably exposed, he nodded. "I think better with it." He paused. "My name is Mateo."

Her lips curled into a little smile. "Seraphina."

The girl from the chaotic backstage dream, the presence in these shared nightly wanderings, the name rang out with a faint chime of recognition, but not the pop star persona. It seemed like anchoring something when their names were said, solidifying the impossibly tenuous connection.

Seraphina was finding solace in her dreams. She felt a sense of quiet sincerity that replaced the first strangeness of the rough textures and salty air. She would find herself sitting in a sun-drenched room with the aroma of turpentine and the gratifying scrape of charcoal on paper, or strolling down cobblestone alleyways beneath an impossible starry sky (very different from the light-polluted sky of Los Angeles). Usually present and focused on his work, Mateo became more conscious of her presence. Her waking life required a performative energy that contrasted sharply with his quiet intensity.

In one dream, she sat next to him on a stone jetty while the waves sighed rhythmically below. His fingers were moving with experienced dexterity as he repaired a fishing net rather than drawing.

With her voice now more distinct in this communal area, she questioned, "What are you doing?"

His face was solemn as he looked up. "Mending holes. The catch escapes if the net breaks. He displayed a piece. You see? You must delicately weave it back together.

Even though it appeared to be a straightforward, useful duty, she found that observing his concentrated labor had greater significance than any high-level meeting she had attended that week. She muttered, "We just buy new things," recalling the frequent replacements and upgrades Janice insisted on.

Mateo's eyes flickered with surprise as he gazed at her. Without any obvious cynicism, he stated, "Must be nice." This factual statement more clearly emphasized the disparity between their experiences than any argument.

Every time, the waking world reacted with ruthless indifference. The harsh reality of Senhor Alves shouting about unpolished tableware or his mother's anxious look over the morning coffee as she calculated bills would greet Mateo when he woke up from a dream full of starlight and soft talk. He was getting distracted and agitated due to the physical discomfort of the contrast. He began painting things he recalled from his dreams, such as the precise curve of that contemporary seat or the arrangement of lights in the strange cityscape, and he concealed the drawings beneath his mattress like secret messages. He attempted to convince himself that his brain was creating escapes and that it was only stress. However, the regularity, the sense of her unique presence, the names that were swapped... More than just sporadic neuronal activity seemed to be involved.

The noise of the world demanding her attention, Janice with schedule updates, her PR with approved interview responses, and Seraphina herself emerging from the serene sounds of the dream ocean to the relentless buzz of her phone. Like dawn mist, the dream's last serenity vanished. Marcus, her producer, tried to transform the straightforward melody she had shared with Mateo into a sophisticated pop arrangement that robbed it of its essence while she was singing it absently. A part of her mind kept returning to the sea air and charcoal smudges, and she felt more and more detached from the 'Seraphina' brand, like a puppet going through the motions.

In the dreams, the cultural gap showed up in surprising ways. Mateo was attempting to explain to Seraphina the forthcoming Festa de São João one evening. They were dreaming as they strolled down a street with Portuguese cobblestones and palm trees from Los Angeles.

"Everyone will be out," he clarified, imagining the well-known mayhem. "Jumping over bonfires for luck, grilling sardines in the street, music everywhere..."

Intrigued but filtered via her personal experiences, Seraphina listened. "Whoa, a festival? Who is the main attraction? Are special passes required to enter the VIP areas?

Mateo gazed at her with confusion. "Headlining? VIP? Not at all. It's simply the town. Everyone. You simply leave. He made an ambiguous motion. Families, the elderly, and children. Sardines and possibly some caldo verde are purchased at a stall. No tickets are available. It's São João.

"Oh," Seraphina said, sounding a little disappointed. Barricades, security sweeps, and tightly controlled access were all part of her vision for a sizable gathering. It seemed charmingly implausible that a whole community would be celebrating together, naturally, without corporate sponsorship or tiered ticketing. The straightforward explanation made clear how drastically different their conceptions of celebration and community were.

They both began to wake up with the same persistent question: Who are you? Not only the name, but also the individual who is responsible for the dream presence. On his breaks, Mateo found himself looking up "Seraphina" in the entertainment headlines online. His screen was assailed with glossy pictures of the American pop sensation that were both familiar and strange. Yes, the eyes belonged to her, but the fake grin and the glossy exterior... It wasn't the silent, perceptive figure he had seen in his fantasies. Did he simply transfer his own loneliness onto a well-known person? He was plagued by doubt.

On the other hand, Seraphina found herself trying to appear informal while posing ambiguous questions about Portugal to her assistants. In an attempt to discover something that matched the textures and sensations from her dreams, she looked up coastal cities on maps and sought for pictures of fishing boats. Was 'Mateo' merely a fiction manufactured by her solitary subconscious, a representation of the authenticity she sought? In her highly controlled world, she required reason, evidence, and something concrete. However, the dreams were too shared, too persistent, and too precise.

The justifications were becoming stale. These explanations—stress, longing, and imagination—seemed more and more insufficient. Both of them were restless and wondered if they were going insane or stumbled across something exceptional since something weird and unexplainable was occurring beneath the shared skies of their sleep, bridging the insurmountable distance between their different worlds. The distinction between the actual world and the dream world was starting to get hazy, and the need to comprehend the relationship was growing stronger.