The Dream That Held Her Hand

Because sometimes love doesn’t visit in daylight—it comes as a dream, not as an escape, but as a life the universe lets you live twice.

Some mornings arrive quietly.
But this morning… it arrived like a secret written in breath and light.

The moment I opened my eyes, I wasn’t in the real world. I was smiling, whispering, searching for someone who wasn’t there. For a while, I didn’t even realize I had woken up. It felt like my body had risen, but my soul was still somewhere else—lingering in a softer world.

I wandered half-asleep, my face carrying two shades at once: the weight of slumber and the glow of a smile that refused to leave. I don’t know how I looked, but the feeling inside me was beyond description—as if love itself had borrowed my breath.

Then a ray of sunlight touched my face. Its warmth shook me awake, reminding me that the day had begun. But just before the light broke through, I was living inside a vision so tender, I didn’t want to leave.

Because in that vision… she was there.

She has begun to visit my dreams now. And the best part? I was living those early hours with her, welcoming my day through the rhythm of her presence and a smile that belonged only to her. That wasn’t just a dream—it was a meeting arranged by the universe itself. Only the universe knows how heavy it is for my heart to stay away from her.

It wasn’t fantasy. It was a resurrection of love at the very place where we had once carved our most beautiful days.

Sometimes, when the universe allows, I share those memories with her. The rest of the time, I speak to my own heart about them, until they steady me again. And when I miss her unbearably, I console myself with the smallest fragments of her:
– the way she talks,
– the way she walks,
– the teasing curve of her lips,
– the way she holds my hand,
– the care she wraps around me,
– the way she claims me without asking,
– the way she clings tightly through every storm,
– the way she loves me more deeply than I can ever return.

Talking to my heart about her has become my sanctuary. My silence. My breath of peace when nothing else can calm me.

And this dream—or whatever it was—remains etched as if it was lived, not imagined. I remember every detail, like a film pressed into my soul.

It began with a call.
Her call.
Her voice—after so long—flooded through me. I froze, lost, drowning in it. Before I could even ask about her, she said softly:
“Please come to the mall… one of our favorites. Maybe we can relive some of those old memories. Maybe we can breathe life back into what we once shared.”

I didn’t believe it. I didn’t even ask how she was, where she had been. The only words that escaped were: “When? What time?”

“I’m heading there now. Please come soon.” And then she hung up.

I didn’t waste a heartbeat. I pulled out my bike and rode faster than I ever had. The road we once traveled together stretched before me, every corner whispering her presence. Every turn carried the breath of old laughter.

The flower vendor still stood at his usual corner—the quiet witness of our love, as if time itself had kept him there just for this day. His stall was the same splash of colors I had once turned to whenever words failed me.

From him, I had chosen roses to speak on my behalf: red when passion burned louder than my voice, yellow when silence clouded her smile, pink when I wanted her to feel as rare as she truly was, and white when only forgiveness could bring us back together. Each color had once carried pieces of my heart to her hands, each bloom a messenger of what I couldn’t say aloud.

But that day, when he asked, “Which color, sir?” I couldn’t answer. My heart stumbled. How could I decide? Which shade could mirror the depth of her eyes that hold galaxies in silence? Which fragrance could carry the warmth of her heart—the kind that can turn my storms into calm?

Was one flower enough for a love that had survived time, absence, and longing? For a moment, I stood there overwhelmed, every petal calling me in a different direction—each color begging to become the language of what I felt.

I was lost in that confusion, almost breathless, as if the universe itself was testing me—asking if I truly knew how to honor her. And then, like clarity breaking through fog, I knew. A bunch of pink roses, with a single red one in the center. Pink—to celebrate her, to wrap her in reverence. Red—to confess, yet again, that my love has never once left her side.

And then—I was there. Sitting on the stairs by the mall gate, a bunch of roses in hand, my eyes fixed on every cab that stopped. My chest rose and fell with every door that opened, as if each breath might carry her name.

And then I saw her.

Across the road.

Her casual outfit, her brown sling bag, her black sunglasses. The world around her dissolved. It was only her. My life. My happiness. My home—standing on the other side.

Crowds swarmed, traffic roared, but they were all shadows. When she raised her hand to wave, I saw what she needed. She was stuck in the rush, waiting to cross.

I ran. I didn’t think. I didn’t look. I just ran. Because nothing else mattered.

When I stood before her, words abandoned me. She smiled, and I finally understood what it means when they say someone grows more beautiful with time. She was glowing—like light itself had chosen her skin. My heart was roaring, not beating. My eyes brimmed with emotions that silence could no longer hold.

She rescued me from stillness with her soft urgency:
“Help me cross—I’m stuck.”

And then I touched her hand. After so long, it was back in mine. Trembling, warm, alive. My fingers shook, but my soul steadied—as if it had been waiting only for this.

She struggled with the divider in her heels, so I pulled her. But it didn’t feel like crossing concrete.

It felt like pulling her out of the distance that had shattered me.
Like pulling her back from the edge of time into my arms.
Like dragging the stars themselves down into my sky.
Like reclaiming my own breath after years of drowning.

Every ounce of me screamed—you are mine, you’ve always been mine. My heart thundered as if it wanted to burst free, not to beat, but to wrap itself around her.

And in that instant, the world blurred. Horns, cars, crowds, chaos—everything dissolved. The only truth was her hand in mine. The only reality was that I had pulled life itself back to me.

My eyes betrayed me then. The emotions spilled—not weakness, but the kind of tears that fall when your soul finally exhales.

Because that dream… it wasn’t a dream.
It was a life.
A lifetime folded inside one night.
A second existence gifted to me when reality couldn’t hold her.