The Dream or the Nightmare

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Each night I lie wake, letting my thoughts wander until I drift into darkness. Sometimes you are there, sometimes you are not. Dark whispers echo in my tiny room as shadows dance. Sometimes it makes me smile, but sometimes it makes my cry.

Each night I have the same dream/nightmare. It’s the same place and time. And you. You are the subject of my odd, night versions. You, my more-than-friend, have become the sun in my mental solar system without my consent.

Each night we reenter the school’s cafeteria. As always, we are fooling around with our two friends. You pass me the same messy note time and time again and the message never ceases to stop shocking me. The shock burns through me as time stops and I wake.

Each morning I wake feeling tired and nervous. I fear the dream is really a nightmare that will come true. Yet the pang of disappointment mocks me when it doesn’t.

Each day at lunch, when I see you my heart soars to my throat. I force a relaxed smile and hide behind brash words of adolescence. We admitted our feelings for one another not too long ago, so my more-than-friend where does that leave us? Practically dating some say, but I have no clue.

Each day that same note plagues me, the message branded on the inside of my eyelids. I can practically hear you speak the words I keep dreaming you wrote. The words that make me want to cry in joy and fear at once, the very words that will kill me in time.

Each breath I take is painful as I wait for the note to appear in our waking lives. I’m dying thanks to that note. I’m dying for that note. My conscience is torn between wanting that note and fearing its very idea coming to your mind.

Each moment with you kills my sanity slowly. Half of me screams to let you hold me when you try, while the other tells me to keep some distance. As the days pass, my mind tells to me to be held, aching for your warmth. My dark, stupid conscience argues with me, telling me it’s too soon.

Each touch sends icy fire through my veins like poison. It frightens me, no, you frighten me. The thought of this makes me light headed and makes me feel like I’m sick; I hate it, but love it too. I can’t try to explain it to you for my face burns with unfamiliar embarrassment and shyness that I think I’ve gone insane leaving this to be just some sick illusion of my mind. And that frightens me just as much.

Each thought is of you and that small, messy note. The simple phrase on a simple scrap of paper, written in your half crude handwriting. When I open the note the words stare out at me, as if alive. The note haunts me as I wait for my dream or nightmare to appear.





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