Dream a Little Dream of Me

Oh, how I wished that I could find myself staring longingly into a gentleman’s eyes; for at the moment, my mind yearned for results of tests, of intellect and of acceptance while my heart yearned for things I didn’t even know yet. The anxiety and pressure was crippling, and my own longing for love was one task, well– one could say–, distracting. I had run through piles of homework and assignments: assessments. And I had been running from the frightening thought of having a life. I lived in the loves of my book characters and stayed away as much as I could. 

Until I walked into that café I was tormented with sunken eyebags, too stubborn to drink an americano but too helpless to not to intake some sugar and caffeine. With my nose in an old book and others’ noses in their own business (or their phones), my heart tugged at the song playing overhead. That’s when I locked eye contact with someone who looked up from his book the moment I did. His eyes stared deep into my soul, and in that moment I felt vulnerable– but not in a bad way. There was something about his person that felt safe and something about those hazel eyes looking at me that made me feel desirable. I hated how little girls could go around telling boys that they loved them, while I was here struggling to even say hello to that handsome man waiting for his coffee in this damned café.

I shook my head and smiled to myself– forcing the words from the page into my head. I sighed as book characters had a better love life than I did; and they didn’t even exist in real life. I wish I had that meet-cute. I wish I could live with that Happily-Ever-AfterTM. So, I moved up in the line and waited; I moved up again and waited: just one more moment to prepare myself… Just one more. Was it too much to ask for the courage to tell someone I liked them? And before my life could start with a love, he was gone. A part of myself sighed in relief. The rest of me… reacted in a vile way. My heart ached, my thoughts screamed. Why was it such a big deal to you to not say anything? I was scared. Scared. I was too scared to deal with anything that I didn’t know, and love was a far thing away from ‘known.’

The $6 lukewarm coffee served only as a reminder that my 30-second love story only existed in my mind. I imagined a sunset date with candles– my heart went giddy with that thought. It wasn’t my fault I grew up with love stories– the most tragic one being the one about my parents. I always dreamed of being in my own fantasy, where I wasn’t brought down by the gravity of reality; but I knew that was impossible. Love was terribly hard to come by these days, and many now have died for its sake. 

‘And like I told you, Lara,’ I rolled my eyes, ‘I didn’t have the courage to tell him.’

‘Right, and yet you spend,’ she mockingly ponders, ‘more than ¾ of our conversation talking about how his eyes are so warm and his fluffy brown hair.’ It felt illegal to have a friend who knew so much about you. Lara knew almost everything I was thinking– which I didn’t know whether it was a good thing or not. She read every single piece of lovey-dovey poetry I wrote for random people I met on the streets, my questionable crushes from school and celebrity crushes from movies. 

‘What did you write this time?’ she asked, scooting closer. She loved reading my writing, but often made fun of it. I flushed, shaking my head and burying my face in my sleeves. Lara knew there was no hope for me– the only thing left was courage. That is… if I saw this mystery man again. I know how crazy it can sound to be reading the inner thoughts of a young adult, not knowing what to expect next; probably a lot of pining and terrible poetry of a man I don’t even know. One could say my weakness was getting too involved in the ‘impossible’– but personally, I thought it distracted me from what really was happening in this dull life on Earth. 

‘I can’t,’ I laughed nervously, ‘It’s so bad.’ It wasn’t bad. It was just a little… expressive? Not in a sexual way or anything, but it was the type of poem that hit just right for me: a hopeless romantic. It was delusional– like me… It read:

I wish you could be here– 

for I know the cinnamon smell in the air is your favourite;

for I know that all I yearn for is your eyes;

for I know that you will call me a fool;

but I think they call this love. 

We should travel the world–

for the snow of Japan, we go skiing and you can teach me

with your patience which I love the most;

for the sunlit dinners of Thailand, we go dancing under the stars

with your eyes, which I love so much, on me;

for I know that you, easily the most prevalent on my mind, would sing to me You’re Beautiful

With your arms around my waist, in my dreams;

but I can only imagine. 

I said I wouldn’t catch feelings–

Not for another idiot. 

And I’m sorry for my incapabilities–

Of restraint.

But in all of this,

I think they call this love.

I never thought that this would end with ‘I’m not what you need,’ when it started with ‘Do you want me to give you a hand?’ I had entered the bookstore that day, greeting the old man who smiled with his eyes at the counter. I had loved that bookstore since I was a child. He was my father figure, and his little daughter was like my sister. I spent so much time in this old bookstore it was like my second home. I enjoyed the smell of pages, fresh prints and vintage collections. It reminded me of my childhood and my first poems and my first times I really felt… alive. Books brought that confident side of me out. I felt safe here. I was in my imagination, ‘Any new books?’ I asked. He knew I loved fairytale-like endings. 

‘Yes, honey,’ he smiled, ‘in the back, where the literature is. Go check it out.’ I thanked him and went to the back, where I found a man standing there, headphones and all, reading a book while leaning against the bookshelf. It was rare to find people back there, where the literature was. But all in all, it was rare to find people at a bookstore in general.

I scanned the titles from the bottom rows to the top, spotting a new one that I had never seen before– right at the top, out of my reach. I jumped and tiptoed, trying to not disturb anyone near. I wished that a man would at least have the chivalry to help me out– lend a helping hand. I sighed, reaching but not getting anywhere. Then, I heard the ruffling of clothing coming from behind me. The man put his book aside and hung his headphones around his neck. Yes, I need help, I laughed and he chuckled. He was probably thinking that I was so short– which was true! No shame in that! When he looked at me, I felt that same gaze from hazel pupils as from the coffee shop a while ago.

‘Are you that guy from the coffee shop?’ I felt so natural speaking, for reasons in which I did not know. I recognised his eyes and his hair and his thin-framed glasses.

‘Yeah, you’re that girl, right?’ he cocked his head, ‘The one who was reading?’ I nodded– was this fate? Was this my meet-cute? Yes, my subconscious seemed to tell me.

—

Our fates brought us here today, where we are at a candlelight dinner, and I feel like nothing can beat that– finally, a hopeless romantic had a love herself. No, my subconscious told me, This is wrong. How? My heart was giddy and my stomach fluttered around him. Everything was as it should be. Until I realised this was going a lot faster than it should have. Until this all spiralled into sunlight and I bolted awake, in my own bed– alone. Too good to be true. But too good to say goodbye to.

—

A world without love is closer than we may think— I see it up ahead on my path not taken. I still remember that feeling of… of acceptance into a life I knew was never meant for me, and how I thought it would never end. I met him at a café, and fate brought us back together at a bookstore; it was like a fantasy.

I remember my heart racing and my mind short circuiting and my stomach reeling and my heels spinning and my eyes wandering around the room: all for him. One would almost say that I loved him, and I still wish for a gentleman like him to come into my life… again. This time, perhaps it could be something other than a dream, because my world without love… is a nightmare that I am… slowly getting fed up with. So, I start another poem. It reads:

I had a dream–

So vivid,

So clear;

Until it came down:

Shattering.

I felt a strange sense of nostalgia–

Thinking about what could have been;

If i just stayed:

Asleep.

You felt so warm–

So real,

So possible:

I could feel your smile against mine

And your arms wrapping tightly around me while we danced in the rain.

I am drowning, in a wretched sea one may call

Fantasy.

I am in one lonely and broken nation one may call

Imagination.

I wish that I could go back–

In the comfort of my dreams,

In the comfort of your warmth,

In the comfort of you.

So I’m here. I’m dreaming a little dream of you:

Happily Ever After.