Page 1 of Only You

Washington, D.C.

The only accurate way to describe Danielle Richardson would be to call her a dreamer.

For as long as she could remember that’s how she visualised people, places and the impossible things to know at her age.

Her eyes were often glued to the TV, wondering what would happen next to the characters because there was never an end, even though her parents tried to convince her otherwise.

Dani was sure there was always a ‘next’.

Everyone thought she had learned to think like that from music, the endless possibilities of it. It was the go-to explanation when people asked her about her cello skills or her interest in composition. It was the easiest one, the most reassuring.

The real lesson came from her dreams, the ones she had grown up with for years, always starring her as the same set of characters.

It didn’t matter that she didn’t look the same or live in the same place.

It also didn’t matter that sometimes – more often than not as she got older – the dreams felt real.

She couldn’t relate to people that said they could only remember a few things about their dreams or that the details were often illogical.

For her, dreams were other lives and truths and heartaches she was glad to never have experienced herself.

But she always remembered them, even when she wished for nothing more than to forget.

Dani laid on the chaise in a typical university office – the brown furniture, shelves lining the walls, the dull carpets, a certain staleness in the air that mixed with the smell of books – tossing her favourite stress ball and catching it deftly as her counsellor, courtesy of Howard University, took notes.

The woman had sand-coloured skin and curly brown hair that Dani would have been envious of before she found out how well box braids suited her.

She wore rings on every finger and gold jewellery that contrasted against her perpetual dark clothing.

Dani’s favourite feature about her was her poker face, a mildly unamused expression that rarely changed except for the occasional glance over her square frame glasses giving Dani a clue that she was being annoying.

She waited for Dr Castillo to diagnose her latest dream.

It was a repeat of one of the earliest she could remember.

She was sailing from the Ivory Coast, practising sword fighting on the deck of a ship to pass the time until she arrived in Paris.

It was a tamer dream than usual, so Dani appreciated it.

‘And why do you think this particular dream is recurring?’

Dani shrugged. ‘Because that’s what it does,’ she said. ‘It’s a dream.’ She tossed the ball again, catching it effortlessly.

‘Dani,’ Dr Castillo warned. She hummed in reply. ‘I can’t help but feel as though you’re not taking this seriously.’

‘It seems stupid to get worked up over something that only happens in my sleep.’

‘So, you don’t find it strange that you’ve dreamed of yourself in different bodies for years? Like you are disconnected from your own?’

‘There are stranger things in the world.’

‘Even the endings?’ Dani’s hand faltered, a sudden ache forming in her chest, and she barely caught the ball as it fell. Dr Castillo leaned forward, persistent. ‘How does that make you feel?’

Dani drummed her fingers on the green ball.

‘Well, as you know, sleep and death are cousins. My family is very close.’ She almost snickered at the exasperated sigh her therapist released.

‘Dani, you’re stalling. You’ve been in sessions off and on for years for this very reason,’ Dr Castillo pointed out, hints of her Bronx accent slipping in.

A telltale sign that she was getting frustrated.

‘I think it’s time for you to be more proactive in your therapy journey.

Whatever you’ve been avoiding – whether trauma or an actual mental condition – won’t stop here.

It will follow you. The only way to resolve it is to face it. Do you realise that?’

Dani threw the ball again, noticing the time on her watch, and snatched it out of the air. ‘I’ll get back to you on that next month,’ she said, rolling to her feet and rushing out.

‘Dani—’

She rushed out of the room and didn’t look back, only taking a deep breath when she was outside the building. It was always so stuffy in there. She heard her phone chime, and she looked down to see a text from her dad.

Just checking in.

The usual , she texted back before tucking her phone away.

Her phone buzzed again seconds later. Her dad had sent a heart emoji. She sent one back, looking at the time. Her class started in fifteen minutes. Gripping the strap of her bag, she headed over to a building nearby, ready to put all thoughts of therapy aside.

Ten minutes later, she was in one of the classrooms in Lulu Vere Childers Hall with a notebook and pen resting on her desk.

More students filed in, but she paid no attention to them as she went over her latest composition, jotting down some questions she wanted to ask her professor after class.

She looked up briefly when a guy with brown skin and a low-cut fade with the barest hint of waves carrying a guitar case took a seat at the front of the class.

His chocolate brown eyes were thoughtful and focused as he tuned his acoustic guitar.

He’s cute , she thought before turning her attention back to her notebook. She didn’t wonder why he was here; her professor often had guests visit their class.

Just as she thought of him, Dr Allen came in with his usual easy-going gait contrasting the distinguished, salt-and-pepper goatee hinting at his age where his unwrinkled and unblemished brown skin didn’t, and sharp hazel eyes that made him seem more intimidating than he was.

‘Good morning, musicians,’ he greeted in his naturally bellowing voice. ‘Hope you had a great Halloween and didn’t terrorise anyone.’

Dani chuckled politely with the rest of the class, although hers held a certain fondness. She had Dr Allen last semester and while he could be a little corny, she appreciated that he always seemed happy to be in class.

‘Now, as we start to prepare our compositions, I want to circle back to a topic that I covered in the previous course, Music 314,’ he said, rolling up his sleeves, ready to get started.

‘If you didn’t take that course with me, that’s all right.

The question is quite simple: Is any music truly original? ’

A few hands raised around the class, but Dani lowered hers when two in particular shot up.

‘No,’ answered Dre, a percussionist majoring in Jazz Studies, his dreads swaying around his face as he spoke. ‘Everything is borrowed from something else. With technology and exposure, it’s almost impossible for anything to be original.’

‘That’s not true,’ another student interjected, Lauren, a flutist from her performance class.

She always had long nails and loved wearing dark academia themed outfits with afro puffs.

‘Everything has a start. Even if the original idea is thought of by multiple people, the execution is completely different.’

Dani smirked as she watched the two debate; they always had opposing ideas.

She felt a pair of eyes linger on her and turned to look at the guest at the front of the room.

He looked at her with a slight tilt towards the heated conversation, silently asking What’s going on?

She tilted her head towards the two before shrugging, letting him know this was normal.

He smirked and they shared a quiet laugh.

Dani found herself smiling as she turned back to the great debaters.

‘But that’s interpretation, not originality,’ Dre argued. ‘Only if you’re second,’ Lauren said with a steely look.

‘Okay, good,’ Dr Allen interrupted, before the argument could spiral out of control. ‘Both are good points. So, let’s try to apply them. I have one of my favourite musicians, Mr Jones, here.’

The guy holding the guitar waved awkwardly. Dani gave a small wave back, which made the corner of his mouth quirk upward.

‘He’s going to play a song. I want you to decide whether it’s original or not. Jones, take it away.’

He nodded before turning his focus to his guitar, his fingers running through a basic chord before taking off.

Dani’s jaw dropped slightly as she listened.

Mr Jones was clearly talented given the way his fingers flew over the strings with incredible ease.

However, that wasn’t the part that caught her attention. It was the song.

She had never heard it before, didn’t even know if it was freestyled or not, but it felt like a memory, a melody whose name was on the tip of her tongue.

It pulled her into a trance, filling in all the blank spaces to all the songs she had created over the years.

It felt like something was righting itself within her as she watched him play, a feeling of coming home after being gone for too long.

For a moment, she was drifting, falling into the headspace where it was just her and the music dancing around each other. Nothing to hide and nowhere to run.

Nothing but pure joy.

Mr Jones finished with a lingering high note and there was a beat of silence before the class started to clap. Dani blinked, coming back to herself. She immediately flipped to a new page and jotted down notes as ideas flooded her brain.

‘Thank you, Jones. That was fantastic,’ Dr Allen said as the class quietened down. ‘So, I’ll ask again. Is it original?’

‘Definitely,’ Dani jumped in, eager to talk about it even as her fingers itched to keep writing her composition.

‘While he started off with melodies we’re familiar with, he made sure to bring contrast melodies, giving the song a new energy.

It started to sound like John Coltrane’s “Giant Steps” in the style but that’s kind of the point.

No one can be separated from their influences.

How we put them together is where the originality comes from. ’

The class was silent. She rubbed her neck awkwardly. Had she started rambling again?

She looked between her professor and his guest. They both had looks of awe on their faces, with Dr Allen even going as far as to applaud. ‘Ladies and gents, Danielle, the know-it-all,’ Dr Allen teased, tipping an invisible hat in her direction. ‘We appreciate you always.’

‘It’s Dani,’ she said, rolling her eyes playfully as the class laughed.

‘Of course,’ Dr Allen chuckled. ‘But let’s make sure. Now, Jones was that a freestyle or a cover?’

‘Freestyle,’ he answered. ‘But Dani is right. I wanted to see if I could do a version of “Giant Steps” like I had my senior year here. Being in this room brought back that memory. Other than that, I just played with different melodies, to see what could create a feeling of tension and excitement.’ Jones looked and caught her eye, smirking playfully.

‘I find that’s usually the best part of a song. ’

Was that a challenge? Dani smirked back at him and leaned forward. ‘Says who?’

Their eyes met and, for some reason, in the back of her mind there was an audible click .

Her smirk dropped as a headache hit her full force.

It felt her brain was being pulled apart while a rush of images filled it.

She froze, unable to move as they crashed over her.

She clinched the edge of her desk, groaning as she pressed her fingers to her temples, the pressure doing very little against the agonising pain.

Just as quickly as it started, it was over. The class and her professor’s voice slowly came back.

‘Dani, are you all right?’ She blinked until Dr Allen’s face came into focus.

She looked around, suddenly leaning back when she realised the guitarist was hovering over her.

She couldn’t understand why but sudden proximity felt overwhelming.

She didn’t know what was happening, but she knew she had to get out now.

‘S–sorry.’ Haphazardly, she packed her bag and rushed out of the room, the voices around her echoing as she stumbled over her desk.

She started to run through the campus to her car.

Her mind felt like it was tunnelling, focusing on one thing at a time: Get to her car.

Get to her apartment. Go up the steps. Find her keys – where are her keys?

Open the door. Get to her room. Everything revolved around the pressing thought getoutgetoutgetout.

She slammed the door to her room closed, locking it.

She collapsed onto the floor, trying to catch her breath as she stared at the ceiling.

After a few minutes, the world finally stilled.

She rubbed her clammy hands against her jeans as the tightness in her chest faded.

Dani’s heart beat wildly in her chest. She laid down as she tried to come back to her body, emotions rolling through her rapidly.

One moment, she was excited like she was lingering on a cliff edge, and then the next she felt terror like she just jumped off.

‘What is happening to me?’

The silence of her apartment had no comforting words for her.