In the last two hours of my sleep, I dreamed of meeting Laura. The first half of the dream was hazy, but I recall us wandering through a cozy middle-class neighbourhood. It was early evening, the kind of twilight where the sun has set but its soft glow lingers, filtered through thick, pillowy clouds. We drifted from yard to yard, never stepping inside a house, immersed in a conversation that felt both ordinary and significant. Laura looked like the left-side version of a photo of her that sits on my shelf in real life.
As the dream progressed, night settled in, and the neighbourhood came alive with the warm glow of streetlamps and porch lights. We found ourselves standing on the steps of a house with a white door, its window adorned with simple designs. Facing her, I gently took her left hand, swinging it slightly before leaning in to kiss her cheek. Just as my lips were about to brush her skin, the dream shifted abruptly. We were now in a car.
Laura was driving, and I was in the passenger seat. Her driving was erratic, a mix of sharp turns and bursts of speed that felt chaotic and inexperienced. I felt powerless, unable to control or even influence what was happening. Though I wanted to ask her to slow down, no words came. I reached out instinctively, not to her, but to brace myself against the car. My chest was tight with stress; there was no thrill in this ride, only an unsettling tension that lingered long after the dream ended.
Upon waking, I reaffirmed the request I plan to make of her in real life. Instead of overwhelming me with lengthy walls of text or convoluted voice messages that are difficult to follow, I intend to send her a heartfelt card. In the postscript, I’ll write: “In hardship, true friendship reveals itself. While you feel compelled to share ‘a lot of things’ with me, I ask that you do so in person – true to our words, true to our expressions. Until you genuinely need me for something else, I will step back, offering my absence as a means to preserve your peace of mind and sanity.”