The clock on the nightstand blinked 2:17 AM in soft, hazy red light. The world outside was still, tucked under a blanket of silence and distant stars. Inside, the only sound was your breathing, slow and steady beside me.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, lost in the quiet hum of the night. I could feel you there—your hand just inches from mine, your hair spilling across the pillow, catching the moonlight in strands of silver.
You shifted a little, a soft murmur slipping from your lips, almost a word but not quite. It made me smile without even thinking. There was something so gentle, so unguarded about you when you slept—like the whole world you carried so carefully on your shoulders during the day had finally been set down, just for a few hours.
And I couldn’t help but wonder:
“What is it you’re dreaming about?”
Were you dreaming of far-off places? Of mountains we hadn’t climbed yet, oceans we hadn’t crossed? Were you chasing something wild and beautiful in your sleep, something you hadn’t told anyone about?
Or maybe it was something simpler. Maybe you were dreaming of a morning without alarms, coffee shared on a sun-drenched balcony, laughter echoing through a kitchen filled with the smell of pancakes and fresh fruit. A small life, maybe, but a full one.
I turned onto my side to face you, propping my head up with my hand. You looked peaceful, your lashes casting delicate shadows on your cheeks, your mouth curled into the faintest smile.
“What is it you’re dreaming about?” I asked again in my mind, wishing for a way to hear your secret world.
Was it a future you saw? One with messy adventures and quiet nights, arguments over what movie to watch, hands finding each other under tables, forgiveness offered without hesitation? Was I in it? Was this—whatever this was between us—part of the story playing behind your closed eyes?
The questions filled my chest, swelling until it almost ached.
Maybe you were dreaming about who you wanted to become. I knew you better than most, but there were still parts of you I hadn’t fully seen yet—corners of your mind lit up with dreams you hadn’t spoken aloud. Fears you kept tucked away. Hopes you were too careful to name.
I reached out without thinking and brushed a strand of hair from your forehead. You didn’t wake, but you leaned slightly into the touch, and something inside me softened.
I realized then that it didn’t really matter what you were dreaming about—not completely. Because whatever it was, I wanted to be the person you could turn to when you woke up. I wanted to be the arms you fell into when your dreams were too heavy to carry alone.
I wanted to be part of your dreams—the ones you had at night and the ones you built with wide-open eyes.
Outside, the stars shifted, and a cool breeze stirred the curtains at the window. The night felt endless, but not empty. It felt like a beginning.
I leaned closer, my lips brushing the top of your head in a kiss so light it was almost nothing at all.
“Whatever you’re dreaming about,” I whispered, “I hope it’s beautiful.”
And I hope, more than anything, that when you wake up, you’ll find that some dreams are even better in the light of day.
