The dream began in the stars – somewhere between collapse and command. I was a TIE fighter pilot in the shattered remains of the Empire, navigating a red nebula that pulsed at the center of everything. It didn’t feel silly. It felt real. Like something had already ended, and we were fighting over its ruins.
By the time memory sharpened again, I was earthbound.
It was summer, near a beach. A park bathed in late-afternoon haze – sky like pastel blue, with salmon pink clouds drifting like thoughts I couldn’t hold.
I sat on a bench beside my girlfriend’s daughter, who looked no older than three. Her brother, about five, sat across from us with his father – her ex-husband – who looked suspiciously like Nathan Fillion. He wore a grin like a loaded weapon. The boy swung his legs, content. My girlfriend hovered – affectionate toward me, but uneasy. As if her heart wasn’t finished folding.
The ex leaned toward his son and whispered loud enough for me to hear,
What do you think I should call your new buddy?
I stared through my fingers like a smug phantom, hiding pieces of my face, and replied,
“How about… the evil outsider?”
The boy frowned.
He’s not evil. He’s a good person.
The ex said nothing after that. The kid had drawn the line.
Later, my girlfriend hugged her ex tightly and wept. A quiet absolution. I watched her cry into the arms of the man she once trusted, while her son watched me, unsure who he was supposed to root for. I felt myself fading from their world – unwanted but not hated. Just… extra.
So I stood up, and the dream shifted.
Suddenly, I was Sherlock Holmes – the Cumberbatch kind. Black trench coat. Loose collar. Cool indifference. I summoned a sleek road bike from thin air. No helmet at first – but when I thought about safety, a white one appeared.
I rode down a long set of stairs, afraid at first – wrong bike for the terrain – but I made it. I didn’t look back.
Not until the kid chased after me.
He ran, as far as his little legs could carry him, but I was already gone. I glanced back once. Just once. Not enough for drama. Just enough to remember the feeling of almost belonging.
Further along, my bike faltered. The seat was too low. Pedalling was awkward. I dismounted, adjusted it – only to realize the clamp was missing. The frame had changed. It wasn’t sleek anymore. It looked like a toy now. I stared at the seat stem, willing it to work. It didn’t.
So I got back on. Posture ruined. Pride intact. I kept riding anyway.
The final stretch was painted in golden light. A surreal town of bright walls and deep shadows. The contrast felt deliberate, like brush strokes. I didn’t know exactly where I was going, but I knew what I was leaving behind.
And that, somehow, was enough.
