This morning, I took a nap with no alarm – just letting my body decide. I don’t remember the earlier dreams, but the last one lingered like a warm echo. Short, quiet, strangely vivid.
The setting was a blend of two past homes – Francisco Village and Knightsbridge – but leaned more toward Francisco’s modern warmth. I was in a dim bedroom. Wanting to squeeze in a ride before evening, I headed downstairs. As I descended, the gloom lifted. A soft brown-tea glow poured down the wall, broken by the shadow grid of a window. I dragged my fingers across the bumps in the plaster. The kind of texture you only remember if you grew up touching it.
In the kitchen, I was already dressed in my cycling gear – light blue and white, with dark blue and red stripes, mesh panels, and raised seams. I opened the black protein powder canister, scooped it into milk, and noticed the second scoop had melted slightly. It looked rich – almost like dark licorice – and when I licked it, it tasted like premium milk chocolate. Lindt-grade. I kept licking, letting it melt further.
In the background, my parents murmured about mundane things. Something about a $10 health tool my mom wanted to try. My dad scoffed. Cha siu was mentioned. The TV played news from Asia, but the anchor’s voice was muffled – like I wasn’t meant to hear it.
My mind was already on the ride. I imagined the moment I’d push through the gate, turn the bend, and be seen. That gentle thrill of visibility – not fame, not ego. Just that look from strangers. It adds something. It makes the motion feel electric.
And then I woke up.
As I sit here typing, I realize I’ve visited that same dream-space many times. A familiar, stretched-out version of my real-life routes. The roads wider, the homes more spaced, the air heavier with memory. Sometimes I remember dream details so vividly – garage doors, balcony clutter, a lamp in a window across the street. Sometimes, they blur.
The title of this post, paired with Cry by Cigarettes After Sex, is what’s helping me finish writing it.
Because sometimes, when I wake, I still think I’m back at Francisco Village – in my old bedroom, watching the shadows stretch across the wall. But then I realize I’m in central Richmond.
And for just a moment, a small part of my heart breaks.
I lived in that home from August 1997 to July 2017. And some part of me never moved out.
