The Man of My Dreams

I remember so well what you looked like, but then I also don’t. Does that make sense? I remember that your face in my dream was so clear—you were not faceless, but you weren’t some celebrity either. It was distinctly you, whoever you were (are?), but you didn’t look like anyone I already knew.

I don’t remember exactly what you looked like, but there are details about you that stood out and made me feel things: Your eyes were kind, and your smile was disarming. You had stubbles around your cheeks and chin that I do find so insanely attractive. Your skin was golden; you glowed beautifully under the sunset. You were taller than me as my head slightly tilted up to look at your eyes when we talked.

You also had this amazing personality to you, which made you even real-er than a dream! I will probably describe you so generically here, but I have no words as to how unique it felt like you were. At first, it felt intimidating to be around you, but as we continued our conversation while we walked (Were we hanging out? Was it a date?) I grew to be comfortable in your company. You were thoughtful and sweet, watching our steps for us as we strolled together. Your hand would ghost behind me as though ready to catch me if I fell, but you were also unassuming, that your hand never touched my back.

You were so vivid, so real. You were just telling me that you were much older than me—35, was it? And it sounded like you were so mortified by the idea of our age gap. But I told you that you didn’t look like it at all. Thinking about it now, I probably should’ve said something cliché like “Age doesn’t matter” instead. Then you told me that you were much older to the point that you already have a kid—it sounded like you were making me un-like you, but then you also didn’t want me to? Genuinely curious, I was going to ask for their gender—

Then I woke up. I was in my room, on my side and facing the walled side of the bed, drooling against my pillow. It took a few moments before it dawned on me that you were just a dream. A creation of my subconscious. I felt so horribly disappointed. I was truly engrossed with you and whatever else was left to tell about who you were, only to turn out you weren’t real.

I desperately wanted to get back to that moment when you were going to talk about your kid, so I hurriedly rolled to my other side and firmly closed my eyes to sleep. Sleep I did, but you never came. It was just a dreamless slumber.

If you were really just a dream, and there was absolutely no chance of meeting you in the flesh, I sincerely hope I stop dreaming about you. I don’t want to pine for someone who will never be there. But if by some odd miracle, you actually are real, and you are somewhere in the world today, I hope we meet, if only to be friends at the very least.