I dreamt that dream again.
Where you and I were us.
That same house, that same room.
That same bed.
That same you, that same me.
Happy. Together. Belonging.
When the same silent tears rolled down from my eyes while we watched what you called ‘romantic crap’, you were there. To first snort and then to casually put your arm around me in that same comforting way of yours, mild concern glistening in your eyes as they found mine.
When your anger broke another cup in the same way and you pushed the world away, I was there. And when you later felt ashamed, I held your hand.
The same room. The same window with its discoloured frame. The same table covered with books and your blue alarm clock.
The same bed where we spent lazy Sunday afternoons in each others’ arms, loving each other with the same tranquil pace of the noon.
It was the same room. In each dream, the same you. The same me. The same us.
But today, I woke up. I woke up and met you. The same you. The same you who differs so much from the ‘you’ of my dreams.
The You who reminded me. Reminded me that the time we spent together, the life we shared, the happiness that had become my safe place; they all existed in my subconscious. In a dream. A dream that you broke when you looked at me and exposed the real you.
The You I never knew.
The You that could never become us.