She Said We Could Be Together Forever I don’t know exactly…
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She Said We Could Be Together Forever
I don’t know exactly why I’m writing this.
Maybe because I need to tell someone. Maybe because if I put everything into words, I’ll be able to see this situation a little more clearly. Or maybe, deep down, I’ve already made a decision and I’m looking for someone to convince me to change my mind.
I know how this is going to sound. If you read all the way to the end, you’ll probably think I’m crazy, that I need help, or that I’m making all of this up for attention.
That’s fine. I’d think the same thing.
But I need you to try to understand one thing before you jump to conclusions: she’s never hurt me. Not directly. All these years, she’s been the only person who’s been there for every important moment of my life.
And honestly, I don’t know if I can abandon her just because some things don’t make sense.
It all started when I was seventeen.
Back then, I didn’t have many friends. I wasn’t exactly an outcast, and I wasn’t bullied or anything like that. I was simply the kind of person people overlooked. I’d go to school, come home, play video games, watch something, and go to sleep.
My life wasn’t bad. It was just lonely.
It was on one of those ordinary nights that I dreamed about her for the first time.
I don’t remember how the dream began. I only remember sitting on a wooden bench in a park I’d never seen before. It was nighttime, but it wasn’t dark. There was a kind of bluish light in the sky, as if the sun had just set, even though there was no sun anywhere.
She was sitting beside me.
She was a young woman, maybe in her early twenties. She had dark hair, eyes I can’t quite describe, and a face that, for some reason, seemed familiar.
I can’t remember what she was wearing. I can’t remember the color of her eyes. I’ve tried to reconstruct her appearance countless times, but those details always slip away when I wake up.
Still, if I saw her standing in front of me right now, I’m certain I’d recognize her.
In the dream, we talked for hours.
We talked about ordinary things. Music, movies, school. She made a few jokes that made me laugh. At some point, I told her something about my family that I’d never told anyone else.
She listened without interrupting.
Before I woke up, she told me she hoped we’d meet again.
And then I woke up.
I didn’t think much of it. It was just a strange dream, and I had a test the next morning.
The following night, I dreamed about her again.
We were in the same park.
She smiled when she saw me and asked how my day had been.
That’s how it started.
During the first few months, I didn’t notice anything extraordinary about it. I dreamed about her almost every night, and our conversations felt like the continuation of a friendship that had existed for a long time.
The strangest part was that we never had to introduce ourselves again.
She remembered everything we talked about.
If I told her I’d argued with my father, she’d ask me about it the next night. If I mentioned a difficult exam, she’d want to know how it went the next time we met.
She told me things about herself, too, although her stories were a little vague. She talked about places I’d never been, people whose faces I could never quite picture, and experiences that seemed to belong to another era.
Whenever I asked where she lived, she’d change the subject.
When I asked how old she was, she’d smile and say she’d never really thought much about it.
I assumed it was just the way dreams worked.
After all, I was asleep. Why did everything have to make sense?
Over time, I started telling her things I didn’t tell anyone else.
My fears, my insecurities, my resentments. I told her about my first love, the times I’d felt inadequate, and the shame I felt about certain things I’d done as a child.
She never judged me.
Sometimes, she disagreed with me. Sometimes, she’d tell me I was being unfair to someone or that I needed to stop worrying about things I couldn’t control.
She didn’t agree with everything I said just to please me. I think that’s exactly why I trusted her so much.
She seemed to know me better than I knew myself.
When I turned eighteen, I asked if she knew my birthday was coming up.
She looked at me as if the question were absurd.
\- Of course I do.
\- How?
\- You told me.
I didn’t remember telling her.
She laughed at my expression and changed the subject.
I never thought about it again.
The years went by.
I started college, got a job, and had relationships. Some things worked out. Others didn’t.
She was still there.
When I was twenty, my first serious relationship ended. I spent weeks crying before bed. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. My friends tried to cheer me up, and my family told me I was young and would find someone else.
She didn’t say any of that.
She just listened.
That night, we sat on the park bench until the sky began to brighten. She held my hand while I talked about everything that had gone wrong.
When I finally calmed down, she rested her head on my shoulder.
“You always come back,” she said.
I laughed, still sniffling.
\- Back here?
\- Back to me.
At the time, I thought it was an expression of affection.
Maybe it was.
When I was twenty-three, I began to realize I was falling in love with her.
It didn’t happen all at once. There wasn’t a specific moment when I looked at her and suddenly understood what I felt.
It happened gradually.
I’d catch myself thinking about her at work. Whenever something funny happened, I’d want to tell her. When I was sad, I’d imagine what she would say.
I started comparing my girlfriends to her.
None of them seemed to understand me in quite the same way.
I know that’s not fair. The women I dated were real people, with their own lives, worries, and flaws. They weren’t obligated to understand me perfectly.
But she always seemed to know exactly what I needed.
I could spend an entire day without talking to anyone and still not feel lonely, because I knew I’d see her that night.
It was ridiculous, I know.
But I loved her.
And for a long time, I thought there was nothing wrong with that.
When I was twenty-six, I started wanting to sleep more.
At first, it was just a matter of convenience. If I went to bed early, I’d have more time to talk to her.
Then I started sleeping later on weekends.
Sometimes, I’d make excuses not to go out with my friends. I’d say I was tired, that I had things to take care of, or that I needed to rest.
I wasn’t exactly lying. I was tired.
Just not from work, or responsibilities, or life in general.
I was tired of being away from her.
My routine began to change.
I’d lie down as soon as I got home, even when it was still early. I’d try to sleep in the afternoon. I started drinking too much coffee just to make it through the workday, which only left me more exhausted by the time I finally got home.
My life began to deteriorate in small, almost imperceptible ways.
I’d forget appointments. I’d snap at people. I stopped doing things I used to enjoy.
But whenever someone asked what was wrong, I couldn’t explain it.
How could I tell them I missed a woman I only saw in my sleep?
How could I explain that the most important part of my day was the part no one else could see?
She noticed before I did.
One night, we were walking through the park. I’d just told her that I’d nearly fallen asleep during an important meeting at work.
She was quiet for a few moments.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” she said.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
She stopped walking and looked at me.
“Spend so much time away from me.”
I remember feeling an almost childish rush of happiness when I heard that.
She missed me, too.
“I wish I could spend more time here,” I confessed.
She smiled.
“I know.”
That night, I woke up with a strange feeling in my chest. It wasn’t fear or sadness. It was a kind of anticipatory longing, as if I were already grieving the next separation.
I lay there staring at the ceiling until my alarm went off.
For the first time in my life, I genuinely wished I didn’t have to wake up.
I should have sought help back then.
I know that now.
But I didn’t, because I didn’t think there was anything wrong with me. I was in love. People in love do stupid things all the time.
Besides, she’d never asked me to abandon my life.
She’d never told me to end my relationships, quit my job, or distance myself from my friends.
If anything, she encouraged me to take care of myself.
When I complained about work, she’d tell me I should look for something better. When I talked about an argument with a friend, she’d suggest trying to work things out. When I felt insecure, she’d remind me of my good qualities.
It was hard to believe someone like that could want to hurt me.
When I was twenty-nine, something happened that I still can’t explain.
My grandfather died.
I’d been very close to him as a child, but we’d lost touch over the last few years. The news hit me harder than I’d expected.
The night after the funeral, I dreamed about the woman.
We were sitting on our usual bench.
I was crying.
She hugged me and let me cry against her shoulder.
After a while, she began talking about my grandfather.
She told me he had a small scar on his left hand, the result of an accident with a tool when he was young. She described the backyard of the house where he’d grown up and mentioned a tree that had been cut down long before I was born.
I knew about the scar. I remembered it from childhood.
But I’d never told that woman about it.
As for the backyard, I’d never seen it. I’d only seen the house in old photographs, and none of them showed the tree.
I asked her how she knew about those things.
She seemed confused.
“You told me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
She said it so naturally that I started doubting my own memory.
Maybe I’d mentioned it in an earlier dream. Maybe I’d told her and forgotten. Maybe I’d seen a photograph and couldn’t remember.
There were possible explanations.
I clung to them.
Before I woke up, I asked one last question.
“Are you real?”
She frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… do you really exist?”
She cupped my face in her hands.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
I woke up crying.
For weeks, I tried to find a rational explanation for what had happened. I researched recurring dreams, lucid dreaming, memory, and similar phenomena.
I found nothing that satisfactorily explained what I’d experienced.
But I also found nothing proving she was supernatural.
So I did what I’d always done when I had doubts.
I waited until I could talk to her again.
I was thirty-one when she told me we could be together forever.
It wasn’t a planned conversation. There was no music, no change in the surroundings, no sign that this night would be any different.
We were sitting on the wooden bench, just as we had so many times before.
I’d had a particularly difficult week. I was exhausted, irritable, and frustrated with my life.
I told her I was tired of everything.
She listened in silence.
“Sometimes, I wish I didn’t have to come back,” I said. “I wish I could stay here.”
She rested her head on my shoulder.
“You can.”
I laughed, thinking she was joking.
“Sure. If I had a choice, I’d stay here all day.”
“I’m not joking.”
I turned to look at her.
There was something different about her expression. It wasn’t exactly sadness, but it wasn’t her usual serenity, either.
“What do you mean?”
She took a while to answer.
“There’s a way you wouldn’t have to leave anymore.”
My heart began to race.
“What way?”
She looked me straight in the eyes.
“You could stay with me.”
I was silent for so long that she eventually asked if I was okay.
I wanted to ask a thousand questions. I wanted to know how it was possible, why she’d never mentioned it before, and what would happen to me if I tried.
But there was one question I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
The answer seemed too obvious.
“You mean… forever?”
She smiled.
“Forever.”
I woke up shortly afterward.
I spent the entire day thinking about that conversation.
I tried to convince myself it meant nothing. It was just a dream. A fantasy created by an exhausted mind, a manifestation of my desire to escape the responsibilities of adult life.
But that night, I saw her again.
I asked what she’d meant.
She said she hadn’t wanted to frighten me and that I didn’t have to decide anything right then.
Then she hugged me.
“I just want you to know that you don’t have to be away from me forever,” she whispered.
It was the first time I’d ever been afraid.
Not of her.
Of the possibility that she was telling the truth.
Over the last few months, I’ve been researching people who’ve had similar experiences.
That’s how I found the account of a man who died many years ago.
I won’t give any details that could identify him, but his story deeply disturbed me.
He’d also dreamed about a woman.
She’d also stayed with him for years.
He’d also begun neglecting his life to spend more time with her.
And in the end, he died after believing he could stay with her forever.
What kept me awake wasn’t the similarity between our stories.
It was a sentence I found in one of the accounts.
According to the report, shortly before he died, the man told someone that the woman he dreamed about wasn’t human.
That she was a creature that lived in people’s dreams and somehow managed to convince them never to wake up again.
The text called her a dream demon.
I read that sentence dozens of times.
Then I started researching other stories.
I found accounts of women who appeared repeatedly in people’s dreams, people who developed intense emotional attachments to strangers who existed only while they slept, and men and women who seemed to lose interest in their waking lives.
I found no proof that these stories were connected.
I didn’t find a single reliable piece of evidence that an entity like the one described in that account existed.
And yet, ever since I read it, I’ve been thinking about the same question.
What if she’s the same woman?
What if she’s doing to me exactly what she did to that man?
When I finally worked up the courage to ask her, her answer wasn’t what I’d expected.
“You think I’m a demon?” she asked.
I hadn’t used that word. Not in that dream.
I stared at her.
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
She seemed genuinely surprised.
“Because you’re afraid of me.”
I was.
For the first time in all those years, I was afraid of losing control of the situation.
I asked if she knew who the man in the account was.
She said she didn’t.
I asked if she’d ever made that promise to anyone else.
She fell silent.
I don’t know how much time passed. It’s difficult to measure those things in dreams.
Finally, she took my hand.
“Do you really believe I’d do anything to hurt you?”
I couldn’t answer.
She lowered her eyes.
“After everything we’ve been through?”
I woke up with a terrible sense of guilt.
I spent the entire day thinking about the look on her face.
I’d known her for fourteen years. She’d been there for moments in my life that no one else knew about. She knew things about me I would never have the courage to tell another person.
And now I was considering the possibility that everything had been a lie.
I couldn’t accept that idea.
But I couldn’t forget the story of that man, either.
Today, I didn’t go to work.
I couldn’t sleep last night, and I’m not sure I’d have been able to do my job if I’d tried.
I’m writing this on my phone because I need to hear from someone who isn’t her.
I don’t want you to tell me dreams are just dreams. I know that. I know what science says about the subject, and I know there’s no reliable evidence that a woman can live inside someone’s dreams.
I also know I’ve spent fourteen years talking to someone I’ve never met while awake.
I’m not asking you to believe me.
I just want you to listen.
I’m on the rooftop of the building where I live. I came up here because I needed somewhere quiet to think. I’m sitting on a bench against the wall, away from the access door, with my phone in my hands.
I’m not sure what I’ll do when I finish writing this.
I don’t want to die.
I need to make that clear.
What I want is to stop feeling this anguish. I want to know if she’s telling me the truth. I want to know if there’s any way to keep living my life without losing the person I love.
And above all, I want to go to sleep tonight without being afraid of what I’ll find when I close my eyes.
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I don’t know exactly why I’m writing this.
Maybe because I need to tell someone. Maybe because if I put everything into words, I’ll be able to see this situation a little more clearly. Or maybe, deep down, I’ve already made a decision and I’m looking for someone to convince me to change my mind.
I know how this is going to sound. If you read all the way to the end, you’ll probably think I’m crazy, that I need help, or that I’m making all of this up for attention.
That’s fine. I’d think the same thing.
But I need you to try to understand one thing before you jump to conclusions: she’s never hurt me. Not directly. All these years, she’s been the only person who’s been there for every important moment of my life.
And honestly, I don’t know if I can abandon her just because some things don’t make sense.
It all started when I was seventeen.
Back then, I didn’t have many friends. I wasn’t exactly an outcast, and I wasn’t bullied or anything like that. I was simply the kind of person people overlooked. I’d go to school, come home, play video games, watch something, and go to sleep.
My life wasn’t bad. It was just lonely.
It was on one of those ordinary nights that I dreamed about her for the first time.
I don’t remember how the dream began. I only remember sitting on a wooden bench in a park I’d never seen before. It was nighttime, but it wasn’t dark. There was a kind of bluish light in the sky, as if the sun had just set, even though there was no sun anywhere.
She was sitting beside me.
She was a young woman, maybe in her early twenties. She had dark hair, eyes I can’t quite describe, and a face that, for some reason, seemed familiar.
I can’t remember what she was wearing. I can’t remember the color of her eyes. I’ve tried to reconstruct her appearance countless times, but those details always slip away when I wake up.
Still, if I saw her standing in front of me right now, I’m certain I’d recognize her.
In the dream, we talked for hours.
We talked about ordinary things. Music, movies, school. She made a few jokes that made me laugh. At some point, I told her something about my family that I’d never told anyone else.
She listened without interrupting.
Before I woke up, she told me she hoped we’d meet again.
And then I woke up.
I didn’t think much of it. It was just a strange dream, and I had a test the next morning.
The following night, I dreamed about her again.
We were in the same park.
She smiled when she saw me and asked how my day had been.
That’s how it started.
During the first few months, I didn’t notice anything extraordinary about it. I dreamed about her almost every night, and our conversations felt like the continuation of a friendship that had existed for a long time.
The strangest part was that we never had to introduce ourselves again.
She remembered everything we talked about.
If I told her I’d argued with my father, she’d ask me about it the next night. If I mentioned a difficult exam, she’d want to know how it went the next time we met.
She told me things about herself, too, although her stories were a little vague. She talked about places I’d never been, people whose faces I could never quite picture, and experiences that seemed to belong to another era.
Whenever I asked where she lived, she’d change the subject.
When I asked how old she was, she’d smile and say she’d never really thought much about it.
I assumed it was just the way dreams worked.
After all, I was asleep. Why did everything have to make sense?
Over time, I started telling her things I didn’t tell anyone else.
My fears, my insecurities, my resentments. I told her about my first love, the times I’d felt inadequate, and the shame I felt about certain things I’d done as a child.
She never judged me.
Sometimes, she disagreed with me. Sometimes, she’d tell me I was being unfair to someone or that I needed to stop worrying about things I couldn’t control.
She didn’t agree with everything I said just to please me. I think that’s exactly why I trusted her so much.
She seemed to know me better than I knew myself.
When I turned eighteen, I asked if she knew my birthday was coming up.
She looked at me as if the question were absurd.
\- Of course I do.
\- How?
\- You told me.
I didn’t remember telling her.
She laughed at my expression and changed the subject.
I never thought about it again.
The years went by.
I started college, got a job, and had relationships. Some things worked out. Others didn’t.
She was still there.
When I was twenty, my first serious relationship ended. I spent weeks crying before bed. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. My friends tried to cheer me up, and my family told me I was young and would find someone else.
She didn’t say any of that.
She just listened.
That night, we sat on the park bench until the sky began to brighten. She held my hand while I talked about everything that had gone wrong.
When I finally calmed down, she rested her head on my shoulder.
“You always come back,” she said.
I laughed, still sniffling.
\- Back here?
\- Back to me.
At the time, I thought it was an expression of affection.
Maybe it was.
When I was twenty-three, I began to realize I was falling in love with her.
It didn’t happen all at once. There wasn’t a specific moment when I looked at her and suddenly understood what I felt.
It happened gradually.
I’d catch myself thinking about her at work. Whenever something funny happened, I’d want to tell her. When I was sad, I’d imagine what she would say.
I started comparing my girlfriends to her.
None of them seemed to understand me in quite the same way.
I know that’s not fair. The women I dated were real people, with their own lives, worries, and flaws. They weren’t obligated to understand me perfectly.
But she always seemed to know exactly what I needed.
I could spend an entire day without talking to anyone and still not feel lonely, because I knew I’d see her that night.
It was ridiculous, I know.
But I loved her.
And for a long time, I thought there was nothing wrong with that.
When I was twenty-six, I started wanting to sleep more.
At first, it was just a matter of convenience. If I went to bed early, I’d have more time to talk to her.
Then I started sleeping later on weekends.
Sometimes, I’d make excuses not to go out with my friends. I’d say I was tired, that I had things to take care of, or that I needed to rest.
I wasn’t exactly lying. I was tired.
Just not from work, or responsibilities, or life in general.
I was tired of being away from her.
My routine began to change.
I’d lie down as soon as I got home, even when it was still early. I’d try to sleep in the afternoon. I started drinking too much coffee just to make it through the workday, which only left me more exhausted by the time I finally got home.
My life began to deteriorate in small, almost imperceptible ways.
I’d forget appointments. I’d snap at people. I stopped doing things I used to enjoy.
But whenever someone asked what was wrong, I couldn’t explain it.
How could I tell them I missed a woman I only saw in my sleep?
How could I explain that the most important part of my day was the part no one else could see?
She noticed before I did.
One night, we were walking through the park. I’d just told her that I’d nearly fallen asleep during an important meeting at work.
She was quiet for a few moments.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” she said.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
She stopped walking and looked at me.
“Spend so much time away from me.”
I remember feeling an almost childish rush of happiness when I heard that.
She missed me, too.
“I wish I could spend more time here,” I confessed.
She smiled.
“I know.”
That night, I woke up with a strange feeling in my chest. It wasn’t fear or sadness. It was a kind of anticipatory longing, as if I were already grieving the next separation.
I lay there staring at the ceiling until my alarm went off.
For the first time in my life, I genuinely wished I didn’t have to wake up.
I should have sought help back then.
I know that now.
But I didn’t, because I didn’t think there was anything wrong with me. I was in love. People in love do stupid things all the time.
Besides, she’d never asked me to abandon my life.
She’d never told me to end my relationships, quit my job, or distance myself from my friends.
If anything, she encouraged me to take care of myself.
When I complained about work, she’d tell me I should look for something better. When I talked about an argument with a friend, she’d suggest trying to work things out. When I felt insecure, she’d remind me of my good qualities.
It was hard to believe someone like that could want to hurt me.
When I was twenty-nine, something happened that I still can’t explain.
My grandfather died.
I’d been very close to him as a child, but we’d lost touch over the last few years. The news hit me harder than I’d expected.
The night after the funeral, I dreamed about the woman.
We were sitting on our usual bench.
I was crying.
She hugged me and let me cry against her shoulder.
After a while, she began talking about my grandfather.
She told me he had a small scar on his left hand, the result of an accident with a tool when he was young. She described the backyard of the house where he’d grown up and mentioned a tree that had been cut down long before I was born.
I knew about the scar. I remembered it from childhood.
But I’d never told that woman about it.
As for the backyard, I’d never seen it. I’d only seen the house in old photographs, and none of them showed the tree.
I asked her how she knew about those things.
She seemed confused.
“You told me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
She said it so naturally that I started doubting my own memory.
Maybe I’d mentioned it in an earlier dream. Maybe I’d told her and forgotten. Maybe I’d seen a photograph and couldn’t remember.
There were possible explanations.
I clung to them.
Before I woke up, I asked one last question.
“Are you real?”
She frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… do you really exist?”
She cupped my face in her hands.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
I woke up crying.
For weeks, I tried to find a rational explanation for what had happened. I researched recurring dreams, lucid dreaming, memory, and similar phenomena.
I found nothing that satisfactorily explained what I’d experienced.
But I also found nothing proving she was supernatural.
So I did what I’d always done when I had doubts.
I waited until I could talk to her again.
I was thirty-one when she told me we could be together forever.
It wasn’t a planned conversation. There was no music, no change in the surroundings, no sign that this night would be any different.
We were sitting on the wooden bench, just as we had so many times before.
I’d had a particularly difficult week. I was exhausted, irritable, and frustrated with my life.
I told her I was tired of everything.
She listened in silence.
“Sometimes, I wish I didn’t have to come back,” I said. “I wish I could stay here.”
She rested her head on my shoulder.
“You can.”
I laughed, thinking she was joking.
“Sure. If I had a choice, I’d stay here all day.”
“I’m not joking.”
I turned to look at her.
There was something different about her expression. It wasn’t exactly sadness, but it wasn’t her usual serenity, either.
“What do you mean?”
She took a while to answer.
“There’s a way you wouldn’t have to leave anymore.”
My heart began to race.
“What way?”
She looked me straight in the eyes.
“You could stay with me.”
I was silent for so long that she eventually asked if I was okay.
I wanted to ask a thousand questions. I wanted to know how it was possible, why she’d never mentioned it before, and what would happen to me if I tried.
But there was one question I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
The answer seemed too obvious.
“You mean… forever?”
She smiled.
“Forever.”
I woke up shortly afterward.
I spent the entire day thinking about that conversation.
I tried to convince myself it meant nothing. It was just a dream. A fantasy created by an exhausted mind, a manifestation of my desire to escape the responsibilities of adult life.
But that night, I saw her again.
I asked what she’d meant.
She said she hadn’t wanted to frighten me and that I didn’t have to decide anything right then.
Then she hugged me.
“I just want you to know that you don’t have to be away from me forever,” she whispered.
It was the first time I’d ever been afraid.
Not of her.
Of the possibility that she was telling the truth.
Over the last few months, I’ve been researching people who’ve had similar experiences.
That’s how I found the account of a man who died many years ago.
I won’t give any details that could identify him, but his story deeply disturbed me.
He’d also dreamed about a woman.
She’d also stayed with him for years.
He’d also begun neglecting his life to spend more time with her.
And in the end, he died after believing he could stay with her forever.
What kept me awake wasn’t the similarity between our stories.
It was a sentence I found in one of the accounts.
According to the report, shortly before he died, the man told someone that the woman he dreamed about wasn’t human.
That she was a creature that lived in people’s dreams and somehow managed to convince them never to wake up again.
The text called her a dream demon.
I read that sentence dozens of times.
Then I started researching other stories.
I found accounts of women who appeared repeatedly in people’s dreams, people who developed intense emotional attachments to strangers who existed only while they slept, and men and women who seemed to lose interest in their waking lives.
I found no proof that these stories were connected.
I didn’t find a single reliable piece of evidence that an entity like the one described in that account existed.
And yet, ever since I read it, I’ve been thinking about the same question.
What if she’s the same woman?
What if she’s doing to me exactly what she did to that man?
When I finally worked up the courage to ask her, her answer wasn’t what I’d expected.
“You think I’m a demon?” she asked.
I hadn’t used that word. Not in that dream.
I stared at her.
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
She seemed genuinely surprised.
“Because you’re afraid of me.”
I was.
For the first time in all those years, I was afraid of losing control of the situation.
I asked if she knew who the man in the account was.
She said she didn’t.
I asked if she’d ever made that promise to anyone else.
She fell silent.
I don’t know how much time passed. It’s difficult to measure those things in dreams.
Finally, she took my hand.
“Do you really believe I’d do anything to hurt you?”
I couldn’t answer.
She lowered her eyes.
“After everything we’ve been through?”
I woke up with a terrible sense of guilt.
I spent the entire day thinking about the look on her face.
I’d known her for fourteen years. She’d been there for moments in my life that no one else knew about. She knew things about me I would never have the courage to tell another person.
And now I was considering the possibility that everything had been a lie.
I couldn’t accept that idea.
But I couldn’t forget the story of that man, either.
Today, I didn’t go to work.
I couldn’t sleep last night, and I’m not sure I’d have been able to do my job if I’d tried.
I’m writing this on my phone because I need to hear from someone who isn’t her.
I don’t want you to tell me dreams are just dreams. I know that. I know what science says about the subject, and I know there’s no reliable evidence that a woman can live inside someone’s dreams.
I also know I’ve spent fourteen years talking to someone I’ve never met while awake.
I’m not asking you to believe me.
I just want you to listen.
I’m on the rooftop of the building where I live. I came up here because I needed somewhere quiet to think. I’m sitting on a bench against the wall, away from the access door, with my phone in my hands.
I’m not sure what I’ll do when I finish writing this.
I don’t want to die.
I need to make that clear.
What I want is to stop feeling this anguish. I want to know if she’s telling me the truth. I want to know if there’s any way to keep living my life without losing the person I love.
And above all, I want to go to sleep tonight without being afraid of what I’ll find when I close my eyes.
#entertainment
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