Last night, I dreamed of you again.

You were there, just out of reach, as if some thin veil lay between us. It felt real enough that for a few precious heartbeats I believed it—your voice in my ear, your touch against my skin, the way you looked at me as though I were the only soul that had ever mattered. When I woke, the ache of losing you a second time sat heavy in my chest.

Sometimes I wonder if you dream of me as well. If some quiet part of you feels the same pull, the same soft gravity that drags my thoughts back to you whenever the world falls silent. I cannot explain it, not even to myself; only that when I think of you, the noise of everything else grows still.

My sisters already know more than I say. They see why I smile at the night sky for no reason, why I sometimes linger at the window as though waiting for a figure who never comes. I have not told them about the dreams. Perhaps I am afraid that giving them words would break the fragile spell that holds us together.

So I write it here instead—a truth too delicate for daylight, hidden between ink and paper, where only my own hands can betray it.

If you find me—if fate is kind enough to let our paths cross in the waking world—I will know you in an instant. Until then, I will wait.

And I will keep dreaming.