I woke up in a café, sunlight streaming through the windows. A man beside me introduced himself as Thierry, and we spent hours talking and laughing. He took me to the flower market, where he complimented my smile and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. But before I could respond, the market blurred and his voice faded. “I will find you again,” he whispered.
I next found myself by a lake with Thierry, enjoying a picnic. He asked about my dreams, and I laughed, “Isn’t this a dream?” He told me, “You matter to me,” and asked what I feared. I said, “Being forgotten,” and he replied, “I see you.”
I woke Thursday with tears and Thierry’s voice in my head, calling in sick to work. I spent the day drifting between sleep and dreams. Thierry and I explored museums, concerts, and dinners, but my waking life felt distant. I called in sick again, desperate to stay asleep.
Days passed, and my dream life grew more perfect. Thierry proposed with a silver ring, and I said yes. Then, at our wedding, I clung to him, not wanting to wake up.
But I did. Gia had called my mom, and I was dehydrated and weak. In the hospital, I was diagnosed with severe depression, having neglected my body for my dream world. The dreams stopped, and reality felt empty.
In therapy, I shared my story. Writing about my dreams helped me process my grief, and a love story began to emerge. Months later, I stood before a publishing house with a manuscript about a woman who met her soulmate in her dreams. As I entered, I felt hope—maybe I could find that feeling again in the real world through my writing.
