It’s late. The kind of late where the city is quieter, slower, where even the streetlights seem to hum instead of shine. We’re lying on the rooftop, an old blanket thrown beneath us, the sky stretched out like a painting above our heads.
You’re next to me, close enough that I can feel the warmth from your arm brushing mine. Close enough that every breath feels heavier, more important somehow.
Neither of us says much at first. We just watch the stars—what little we can see through the haze of city lights—and listen to the night breathing around us.
Then you turn your head toward me, your eyes soft and searching, and you ask,
“What is it you’re dreaming about?”
Your voice is barely above a whisper, like you’re scared the night might shatter if you’re too loud.
I blink up at the sky, stalling. I could lie. I could say something safe—traveling the world, living in a big house by the sea, learning to play guitar. And sure, all of that would be true. Partly.
But it wouldn’t be the real answer.
Because the truth is simple and terrifying: I’m dreaming about you.
I’m dreaming about a future where we’re still here, still finding rooftops to lie on, still stealing moments like this when the world feels too big and too fast. I’m dreaming about mornings with you, sleepy and messy, and late-night conversations where we say everything and nothing at all. I’m dreaming about your laugh filling up the corners of every room, about your hand finding mine without even thinking about it.
But how do you say all that without scaring someone away? How do you hand someone your heart without trembling?
So instead, I turn my head to look at you. You’re staring up at the stars again, a small smile playing on your lips, waiting.
“I’m dreaming about feeling free,” I say finally. “About being somewhere—or with someone—where I don’t have to pretend. Where I can just… be.”
You don’t say anything right away. Just a quiet hum of agreement. A soft sound that says I get it.
You shift a little closer, your shoulder pressing into mine now. I feel you exhale, slow and deep, and then you whisper,
“Me too.”
The wind picks up for a second, tugging at the edges of the blanket. I grab it without thinking, pulling it tighter around us. Your fingers brush mine, and you don’t move away. Neither do I.
“I dream about not being so afraid all the time,” you say quietly. “About not wondering if I’m too much, or not enough. I dream about someone who stays, even when it’s not easy.”
You’re so close now I can feel every word vibrate in the air between us.
And maybe it’s reckless, maybe it’s too soon, but I find your hand under the blanket and thread my fingers through yours.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper.
You turn your head again, and this time your eyes are shining, not from the stars but from something deeper. Something real.
“Me either,” you say.
We lie there like that, hand in hand, heart to heart, the night folding itself gently around us. For once, we don’t have to fill the silence. We don’t have to run or explain or hide.
We just dream together—out loud, fearless, golden—and somehow, that feels like the bravest thing either of us has ever done.
And if you asked me again right now, “What is it you’re dreaming about?”
I’d look you right in the eye and say, “This. I’m dreaming about this.”
