In Dreams

            “In dreams I walk with you

            In dreams I talk with you

            In dreams you’re mine, all of the time

            We’re together in dreams, in dreams”

           ~Roy Orbison, “In Dreams”

 

            In dreams, a friendship or relationship can be anything you want it to be. You can interact with people you don’t see often enough, in ways you never would have thought possible--and the times you have with them in dreams can compensate for what you can’t experience with them in real life. Sometimes it can be a letdown when you wake up in the middle of one of these interactions and discover that it wasn’t real. You might find yourself holding on to what you remember about the dream, wishing you could return to it and find out how it was going to continue. But at the same time, you might wake up with a feeling of deep satisfaction. The time you had with the other person in the dream has given you something with them to look forward to in real life. And maybe it’s reminded you of just how much you like them, just how much that person means to you.

            I used to think of dreams as actual journeys of the soul. When you have a conversation with someone in a dream, I wondered, do you and the other person actually have a conversation in some other dimension? If, in your dream, you visit a certain place, does a part of you actually go there, only to be summoned back when you wake up?

            More recently, I was led to believe that dreams come from within you, not from outside you. If this is the case, I surmised, then maybe dreams are messages from your subconscious mind. It could be trying to tell you something about yourself that you hadn’t been aware of--something you’re nervous about, for instance, or how you feel about a particular person.

            I have to admit, I’ve given up trying to figure it out. These days I have no idea what dreams are, or what they mean, or where they come from. All I know is that there’s someone who keeps showing up in mine.

 

*                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

             I’m not sure exactly when I met her; she just seemed to fade into my awareness. But we worked on a play together toward the end of last school year, and that was when we truly connected. As we attended rehearsals together, I came to realize how delightful she was, and how glad I was that we were involved in the same show. I became more intensely aware of her and everything she did--from all the ways she contributed to the show, making her an integral part of it, to the charming, carefree manner in which she interacted with me and everyone else. She brought so much life and energy to each rehearsal, and I probably noticed her far too often, but she was always worth noticing. Her enthusiasm reverberated throughout the weekend of the show, and I’ll never forget the way she hugged me, and warmly congratulated me, right after the last performance.

            After the show, we somehow fell out of touch. I saw her often in the hallways and at lunch, and I kept hoping we’d have a chance to spend some time catching up--but she was usually with her friends, or I was with my friends, and I never bothered to approach her. For most of the summer, I remembered her quite fondly, but she wasn’t at the front of my mind.

            And then, about a week before school started again, I had a dream about her. I was outdoors--I don’t remember where exactly--with several people I knew from school, and we were having some sort of party. She was there. And she hugged me.

            She hugged me just the way she had after the show, saying my name in an endearing manner while semi-flinging herself upon me. I wrapped my arms around her and held her close, but I didn’t say anything to her, just as I hadn’t said much to her in the last few months. The dream lasted for one or two more minutes, during which I walked around, talked to a few people, but thought constantly about the way she had hugged me, wishing I could re-experience that exact moment. Then I woke up.

            It was a few hours before I had planned to get up; the sun had just begun to shine in from behind the curtains. As I lay there, feeling blissful and relaxed, I closed my eyes and immersed myself in the dying echoes of my dream, not wanting to think about anything else. And with the satisfying thoughts of what I had just experienced filling my mind, I went back to sleep.

            The night before school started, I went to a preliminary meeting of the drama club, and as everyone stood around greeting each other, she enthusiastically ran up to me, yelled my name, and hugged me again--almost strangled me, in fact. I was briefly reminded of the dream, but I was mainly glad to see her again, and knew I’d be seeing a lot more of her in the weeks and months to come. Soon, my senior year was in full swing. I saw her regularly at rehearsals, and between all that she did for our shows and the occasional times when she and I would talk, I came to enjoy and admire her that much more.

            One day, before rehearsal started, I saw her sitting against the wall with a friend of hers, who was clearly in emotional distress. Her arm was around her friend, and all her energy seemed to be focused on comforting her and cheering her up. I didn’t want to stare at them, so I chatted with the other members of the cast...but I found myself glancing over at the two of them every few seconds. It was a sight too touching to ignore.

            That night, I dreamed that I was the one she was comforting. I sat there, tears rolling down my face, listening to the words she was saying to me, and feeling her arm around me. As upset as I was, I felt free to cry, and free to say whatever was on my mind; she was there, and she wouldn’t leave until I felt better. When I woke up, I had no idea what my dream-self had been upset about. I just remembered her, and the comforting presence I had felt with her by my side.

 

*                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            As frequently as I saw her, I felt like I hadn’t had much time one-on-one with her; we’d rarely talked for more than just a brief exchange. Yet, I knew her well enough to know that she was one of my favorite people in the world. I wanted to spend more time with her--to sit on a bench with her, and just talk for hours. She was such an amazing person, and so charming, that I could never get tired of her. And even though I hadn’t spent much time alone with her, I felt like I could trust her, and she was always there for me--I could tell her anything, it seemed, and she would have nothing against me.

If there was one thing I admired about her, it was her devotion to her friends. Sometimes she told them that they were “perfect”; she had said that to me at least once. At first, I had found it hard to take these remarks seriously; she was obviously using the word loosely, as a term of endearment. But as I thought back over the time I had known her, and tried to remember something, just one thing, that I didn’t like about her, I began to see her point. To me, she was...there was no other word...perfect.

            Was she more than just one of my favorite people? Was she my favorite?

            As I returned to the school for a concert one evening, I found her on a bench in the lobby of the fine arts wing, having just gotten out of rehearsal, and joined her. We didn’t spend five hours together; it was more like five minutes before she had to leave--but it was just the two of us, and it was great spending those few moments with her, talking about concerts, plays, and the like.

            “You’re my favorite,” she said to me at one point, probably after I had made an amusing remark.

            I looked at her, and paused. “You say that to all your friends, don’t you?” I playfully challenged her.

            “Well...I mean, everyone’s my favorite, but you’re, like...my favorite,” she replied as she fumbled with her phone. She must have noticed me looking at it with interest, as if to ask what she was doing. “Sorry,” she said, putting it away, “I was just texting someone back.”

            “Oh...your real favorite,” I joked. She grinned.

            After that, I began making more of an effort to hang out with her at rehearsals. Sometimes she had other work to do before rehearsal started. She’d always pass through the lobby, and sometimes she and I would have a brief conversational exchange before she walked away. When she did, I always felt something of a letdown; part of me almost felt like crying, though I wasn’t sure why. And whenever I found out that she wouldn’t be at rehearsal on a given day, it seemed for a moment as if my main reason for coming to rehearsal had vanished, although I was quick to suppress those feelings.

But on most days, she’d hang out with the rest of us, and as I chatted with various people, I’d always try to work my way over to her. She often brought her laptop, and she would use it to play music, post on her blog, watch YouTube videos of ballet moves she was practicing, or lustfully shop online for cosplay accessories as I looked on, somewhat intrigued. Other times we’d just chat--about school, rehearsals, and life. And I often interjected our conversations by finding imaginative ways to compliment her, if only for the joy of seeing her reaction.

“It’s people like you who make me not want to graduate,” I told her once, when the topic of graduation had come up.

“Awww...” She smiled. “Where will you be going next year?”

            I told her that I was planning to attend the university across the street from the high school. “You should come visit me,” I suggested.

            “I will!” she affirmed promptly.

“You will?”

“Sure!” And suddenly she got an idea: “We can hang out in the music library!”

“Yes! That’s...that’s brilliant!” I thought about spending time with her in the library where I had volunteered over the summer, and for a moment, I was almost looking forward to going to college.

            It was early that spring when she began dating Steven. Increasingly, I saw them together during and after school--walking hand in hand between classes, and sometimes sitting together on the bench, or strolling the hallways together, before rehearsal started. They always seemed happy when they were together, and, of course, I had no problem with their relationship.

            At least, I didn’t think I did. And yet, something wasn’t quite falling into place for me. If I didn’t have a problem with their relationship, why did I think about it so much? Why did I always feel compelled to think it over until I was absolutely sure I didn’t have a problem with it? And why was I so concerned about how I felt about someone else’s relationship? I felt like there was something I knew but didn’t want to admit, even to myself...but I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was.

            Did the fact that she was dating someone change anything, as far as I was concerned? I thought back to the times I had spent with her before they had started dating, and one moment in particular came to mind. “You’re my favorite,” she had told me, as we sat together on the bench.

            Was I still? Not that I had ever believed I was literally her favorite person; I knew it was just a term of endearment. Still, hearing her say it had seemed to affirm something for me. She was definitely one of my favorite people, and this hint that she felt a similar way about me had been somewhat satisfying.

            So...would her having a boyfriend have any effect on her interactions with me, or her attitude toward spending time with me? Her focus had certainly shifted toward Steven, but did that mean it had shifted away from her platonic friends?

            The more I tried to figure it all out, the more she was on my mind--to the point where sometimes she was all I could think about. I had become practically obsessed with her. And maybe that was all it was, an obsession. Maybe she was simply my favorite person in the world, and I was slightly infatuated with how great I found her to be...and that was why I couldn’t stop thinking about her. But what gave me the right to be obsessing over her, and calling her my favorite person in the world, when I obviously wasn’t the most important person in her life?

 

*                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            I awoke with a start, and sat up abruptly. I gradually came to my senses in the darkness of my bedroom, as the image of her holding a knife faded out of sight.

            It was the beginning of my spring break. The night before, my confusion had reached a peak. Desperate for some sort of confirmation that I wasn’t doing anything wrong, I had texted her about it. I hadn’t mentioned that she was the person I felt this way about; I had just asked, as if it were a general question, “What does it mean when you find yourself thinking rather obsessively about someone you’re fond of...and you think it’s predominantly a platonic obsession, but you’re feeling a bit conflicted because they’re in a relationship?” Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone to her for advice when she was the person in question, but I couldn’t think of anyone I trusted on the same level as her.

            But I didn’t hear back from her that night, and part of me began to wonder if my text had taken her aback. Had she sensed that it was about her, and had that made her uncomfortable? And when I passed her in the hallway the following day, was it my imagination, or had she waved to me just a bit less enthusiastically than usual?

            And now, in my dream, I had seen her standing in a dark room, holding a knife as she turned to face me. I had woken up before her face was visible, but for once I had no desire to see it.

            Was the dream, or any part of it, true? Had she known my text was about her, and was she upset with me because of it--so upset with me that her dream-self would threaten me with a knife? It bothered me all day. She was one of my favorite people in the world, and even the faintest notion that I may have upset her almost destroyed me.

            Two nights later, I had the same dream again. Whether or not it was real, it must have been trying to send me a message, I concluded, if I’d had it twice. Maybe it was telling me to get back in touch with her, and apologize in case I had upset her. I knew I should. But how? What would I say?

            Then I thought back over what I had seen that night. Perhaps it was my imagination--probably--but something about the dream seemed different this time. I couldn’t know for sure, but I felt like it had lasted just a fraction of a second longer...and I had seen her turn around that much farther.

            I quickly decided not to say anything to her just yet. If the dream had changed, maybe it would continue to progress. And if it ever played out completely, I might know for sure what, if anything, was going on.

            Indeed, I had it a third time that night, and it lasted long enough for me to see her eyes. And they weren’t angry at all. They seemed to notice me and look up, as if she hadn’t even known I was there. So why the knife? Did it have nothing to do with me?

            The next time I had the dream, she smiled widely as soon as she saw me...and put the knife down on a table.

            Two nights passed before the dream came back again. And this time, after she put down the knife, she walked up to me and hugged me the way she had so often, both in my dreams and in real life. She began whispering to me, and as I tried to make out the words she was saying, the room we were in filled with light. I woke up a few seconds later, feeling more relaxed than I had in days. Maybe I hadn’t upset her at all. Maybe everything was okay.

            And when I checked my phone that morning, she had finally texted me back. “Sorry i didn’t get back to you earlier,” she had said. “Let me know if u want to talk about this” Now I knew for sure that everything was all right, that my fears had been for naught. And maybe that was why that particular dream never came back.

            When I saw her the next day, nothing had changed; she seemed as glad as ever to see me. As we talked, she scrolled through her text messages, and was reminded of mine. “Yeah, sorry I didn’t answer your text any sooner,” she said.

            “Oh...right.” I had all but forgotten about it.

            “I hope you didn’t think I was ignoring you or anything.”

            “No, that’s fine,” I responded...and then decided to bring it up. “Well...for a while I wondered if you were upset with me, but...”

            “Oh, no--I’m just really bad at getting back to people!” she explained. “It’s all good! What, did you think I was mad that you had texted me?”

            “No, I just...I thought maybe you had assumed that you were the person I had the obsession with? And that had...freaked you out or something?”

            She suddenly understood. “Oh, not at all!” she said, reaching out and touching my arm. “Not at all.”

            “Right. Of course not.”

            “Let me explain you a thing,” she continued. “Friendships are so important. They’re basically the most important things in the world. And you need them for your mental health, too.”

            “Right. So, it’s okay that I’ve had this obsession with...with someone?”

            “Of course it’s okay. Don’t you worry about a thing. I mean, as long as everyone involved is clear that it is a platonic obsession...just ‘cause, you know, misunderstandings are messy.”

            “Sure.” I nodded, accepting what she had said.

            A few seconds of silence. Then, “So...you want to tell me who it is?”

            “What? Who?”

            “The person you have the obsession with?” she clarified. “I mean...you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but...I’m kind of curious.”

            I hesitated, but by this point I knew she wouldn’t object if I told her the truth. “It...it is you.”

            “Awww!” Her face erupted into a wide grin, and she rested her head on my shoulder and kept it there for several seconds, during which I wrapped my arm around her and held her close. “You’re the best, you know that? You’re, like...the best.”

            A hundred different thoughts seemed to go through my head, nearly all of them positive and affirming. I merely smiled back at her and said, “Don’t let Steven hear you say that.”

            She chuckled.

 

*                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            About two months passed. The plays were over, and the school year was beginning to wind down. She and Steven were still together, and had become even closer. And whenever I began to feel like he was more important to her than I was, I remembered what she had told me about friendships. That was all it was. I was her friend, and she was mine--and friendships were important.

            And yet...sometimes I still wondered. If she was just another one of my friends, why did I like her so much? Why did I find myself thinking about her so often, and trying so hard to find her?

            Now that I wasn’t seeing her regularly at rehearsals, I was making every effort to still spend time with her. I saw her in the hallways between classes, and often walked with her and chatted for a while. But I missed the longer, more meaningful times we’d had together while the shows were still going on. And so, whenever I stayed after school for any reason, I found myself walking down to the fine arts wing, and looking around for a while, just in case I might find her there...

            And one day, a few weeks before graduation, she texted me shortly after the school day was over, “Are you still at school? Come down to the fine arts lobby if ur still around, i want to see u” She was there, sitting on the bench alone with her laptop, and I eagerly joined her. We chatted for a while as she browsed cosplay websites and scrolled around on her blog. And after a while, she closed her laptop and put it away.

            “Anyway...” she said, after a slight pause, “there’s something I thought I should tell you.”

            “Hmmm? What’s that?” I looked at her, not sure what to expect. What could she possibly want to tell me?

            She didn’t hesitate this time. “I’ll be moving at the end of the year.”

            I still looked at her as I tried to come to terms with what she had just told me. I tried not to let her see my reaction; indeed, I wasn’t sure how I wanted to react. But she must have noticed something in my eyes; she reached out swiftly and sympathetically, and took both of my hands in hers.

            “Awww, don’t be sad!” she said. “I’m not going all that far.”

            “But...but I’ll still be in town next year,” I began, not really knowing what I was saying. And then I remembered, “You said we would hang out in the music library...”

            “Oh, I...I know,” she responded. “And I was really looking forward to that! I promise, I was!” She paused, patted my arm, then continued, “But my mom got this great job in Virginia, and we had to accept it.”

            “Virginia. That’s...that’s too far away.”

            “Awww, you’re so sweet,” she said, and let go of my hands before I wanted her to. “But I’m really excited. And you know what the best part is?”

            “What’s that?” Somehow I knew it wouldn’t be the “best part” for me.

            “Steven’s grandparents live in Virginia. I’ll still be seeing a lot of him!”

            “That’s...that’s great,” I found myself saying. But for some reason, it was at that moment--just as she mentioned Steven’s grandparents--that my mind seemed to fully internalize the fact that she was moving. The tears were beginning to well up. I couldn’t let her see it. I just couldn’t. Not right now.

            “That’s excellent,” I continued. “I hope you...”--but my voice cracked. I couldn’t hide it any longer; I began crying in spite of myself. “I’m sorry,” I found myself saying in between sobs. “I don’t usually...”

            “No, it’s okay,” I heard her saying. “Just go ahead and cry if you need to. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” And I felt her arm around me, and listened to the comforting things she was continuing to tell me. It was something I had observed before, but experienced only in a dream...and I realized she was right. I didn’t have to hide anything; I could just let my emotions run freely. She was right there next to me, and her only purpose at the moment was to make me feel better.

            She gave me a hug, and then gradually began to release me. “And it’s not like I’ll never see you again.”

            I sniffled. “You sure?”

            “Of course! I’ll make sure of it.” She patted me once more before letting go completely. “I’ll miss you,” she stated simply.

            “Hmmm.” I felt myself smiling. “I’d say the same to you...if it weren’t such a big understatement.”

            “Awww!” She wrapped both of her arms around me, and gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. “You’re my favorite.”

            I looked at her, an eyebrow raised. “Really?” I said, playfully.

            “Well…everyone here is great, but you’re just...you’re so great.”

            I let the moment sink in. “You’re my favorite.”

            She beamed. “Oh, what will I do without you?”

            “Well...you’ll survive better than I will without you. Just saying.”

            “Awww!” She hugged me again.

            I hesitated. “Maybe...I’ll come visit you sometime.”

            “That would be great!” And I saw her face light up at the thought of it, and felt somewhat elated. We sat and talked for a while longer, enjoying each other’s company. I almost forgot how sad I had been that she was leaving; I was just glad I knew her, and glad to be able to spend this time with her.

            The last time I saw her was at graduation. I was standing against a wall when I noticed her walking by with Steven. I caught her eye, and she ran over and threw herself onto me--and I wrapped my arms around her and held her tightly, as if I had no intention of allowing her to leave.

            And after a few long, satisfying seconds, she released me. “It’s been good,” she said as I smiled at her.

            “It has,” I agreed. “I...I couldn’t have asked for a better year with you.”

            “Awww...”

            “But...I could have asked for more time...”

            “Awww!” And she gave me one more hug, which lasted even longer. Then she concluded, “I’ve got to run. But it was great seeing you!”

            And as she and Steven began to walk away, I found myself calling after her. She turned around. “Yes?”

            “I...” I wasn’t really sure why I had called her name...but I quickly found something to say. “I hope I...I hope we see each other again. Soon.”

            She smiled and nodded as she turned back around. And as I watched her and Steven walk toward the door, hand in hand, I wasn’t quite sure what I was feeling. Yet, there was something I kept telling myself, as if it were a mantra. She was showing Steven the same kind of affection she had shown me. He was finding and liking the same qualities in her that I had found and liked in her. And that was a good thing.

 

*                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            Since then, I’ve had the same dream almost every night.

            I find myself in what seems to be some kind of tunnel--part of an underground network of them. I see her cross the path ahead of me. She stops, smiles at me, and beckons me closer...and then continues down her path, as if chasing something. I turn the corner, but I don’t see her. But I know she’s somewhere. And so, I start running after her, following the sound of her footsteps.

            Maybe it’s this sound that wakes me up each night. Or maybe it’s something else, some other force, that’s keeping us apart.

            Still, every time I have this dream, I’m convinced that it lasts a bit longer. I wake up, almost positive that I made an additional turn this time, or heard her footsteps that much louder. And so, every night I go to bed with a smile on my face, because I know I’ll get one step closer to her tonight. And if I never reach her in my dream, at least I’ll have it to carry me forward, toward that day when I see her again in the real world...