The Things We Say in Dreams

Last night, I saw someone I haven't seen in a very long time.

Not in real life.

In a dream.

And perhaps that's what made it so strangely beautiful.

There was no dramatic reunion. No explanations. No questions about all the time that had passed.

We simply had dinner.

We talked. We laughed. The kind of laughter that feels familiar even after years.

And at some point, there was a hug.

Just a hug.

Nothing extraordinary happened, and yet when I opened my eyes this morning, I stayed still for a few seconds.

Smiling.

Because somehow, for however long dreams are allowed to last, I had seen that person again.

And it felt so real.

The voice. The smile. The feeling of sitting across from someone who once meant something important to you.

It was lovely.

But then came the thought that stayed with me long after the dream disappeared.

How many times did I actually tell that person how important they were to me?

How many smiles did I give them when I had the chance?

How many times did I sit across from them and really talk, as though there were nowhere else to be, nothing waiting on my phone, no tomorrow demanding our attention?

Probably not enough.

And I wonder how often we do that.

We live as though there will always be another coffee.

Another dinner.

Another conversation.

Another chance to say, I’m really happy you're here.

But life moves quickly.

We move quickly.

And somewhere along the way, we've become incredibly good at hiding the most beautiful things.

We hide affection because we don't want to seem vulnerable.

We swallow words because we don't know how they'll be received.

We pretend not to miss people.

We act less excited than we are.

We wait for the other person to say something first.

Perhaps because we're afraid.

Perhaps because saying you matter to me gives someone something precious to hold.

Perhaps sometimes we simply lack the courage.

I know I did.

There are people who have passed through my life without ever knowing the exact place they occupied in it.

People I should have thanked more.

People I should have hugged for five seconds longer.

People whose presence made ordinary days brighter, although I may never have told them.

And perhaps that is one of the quiet reasons I became a writer.

Because on the page, I finally say things.

I let my characters be braver than I was.

I give them the conversations I postponed, the honesty I swallowed, the I missed you, the stay a little longer, the you mattered more than you knew.

Maybe somewhere inside every story I've written, there are words that once belonged to someone.

Words I didn't know how to give them when I had the chance.

So I give them to the page instead.

And sometimes I wonder if those words will ever find their way home.

Perhaps one day, one of those people will accidentally come across a sentence and recognize something.

Maybe they'll wonder if it was meant for them.

Maybe they'll know.

Maybe they won't.

That's okay.

I don't need anything back.

I just like the thought that, for one brief moment, my words might reach someone I once cared about and make them smile.

That perhaps their day will become a tiny bit brighter.

And they'll know, somehow, that somewhere in this enormous, hurried world, they were remembered with tenderness.

Last night, a dream gave me another dinner.

Another conversation.

Another laugh.

Another hug.

This morning, it gave me something else.

A reminder.

When someone matters to you, tell them while you still have the chance.

Because dreams are beautiful places to meet again.

But I'd rather not leave all the important words there 🤍

Follow me