In this dream, you were different.
This time, you didn’t tell me that you missed me, that you never stopped loving me, that you knew we’d find each other again. Instead, you handed me a note when I walked through your apartment door. An apartment I’ve never been, mind you, but it felt like you, smelled like you, looked exactly how my non-sleepy mind would have imagined it.
The note was on a scrap of parchment paper, written in colored ink—reds, lime greens, pinks, oranges—and your scrawly handwriting. You wrote that you knew I’d be here. Maybe some premonition, maybe you’ve always known. You always knew me better than I knew myself, haven’t you?
I don’t remember what the note said. I don’t remember what I did after that. But I remember the weight of the paper in my palm, so damn real, I could even feel the rough edges between my fingertips.
I don’t understand why. I’ve never understood. I’ve never understood why you always come to me in dreams, but never in person. Why my mind still tells me you love me, even after all this time.
I woke up, and tried to shake the thought of you. I tried to rationalize, that maybe, just maybe, this dream was a fluke and I’m not still missing you. But I know I’m only lying to myself.
And I know that soon I’ll see you.
Even if it’s only when I close my eyes.