Disclaimer- Mwa hahahaha. For once, it's all mine. Okay, well, except for maybe the room I was imagining. It does belong to someone, just not me.

Author's Note- I hope it comes across as being a male perspective. It's been a while since I've done het. Heck, it's been a while since I've done something I could rate PG. Heh.

Dreamed Reality

It is night. It is late – or so you thought. You look up, wondering what has roused you from your dreamland. You catch her gaze. You ought to be surprised – shocked, fearful even – that she has entered your room, unbidden. She smiles at you and tries to look apologetic, but the light is reflecting off her green eyes and you can tell she doesn't mean it. Not that you wanted her to mean it.

You sit up between your deep blue sheets and cream-colored blankets and pillows that show all the softness you sometimes hide. You ask her why, if she chooses to be in your dream, why it is she hasn't come wearing that little black dress that you fantasize about her wearing, riding up the side to show a little more skin, because you know she never would for anyone but you.

She looks sad then. Truly sad. She asks you then if you think this is really all a dream. Bemused, you wonder what trick she plays. She never comes to visit unless you are asleep, free then to think about her in all the ways you could never tell her. She says it can't be a dream. In dreams you feel no pain, and she hurts. You can see it in the way she grips the arm of the chair like a river is about to run screaming into the room and knock it out from under her. Or in the lines of her body – taut and strained and bridled with electricity. Or just in her eyes – the depths you tried so hard not to lose yourself in are now full of some mysterious sorrow that you do not comprehend.

You reach out to run a single finger down the length of her arm and she looks up at you, tries with all her might to hold on, and falls. A fallen angel. And you wonder if you are the devil meant to catch her, and make her whole again.

She crawls up next to you then, a strange mix in your color scheme, asking for your forgiveness, and for your comfort. She knows she is not supposed to be here. You ask her again why she is. She tells you then, that she couldn't stay away. That she wanted – no, needed to be near you. That she comes to your room almost every night.

You scoff at the absurdity of this statement. It simply wasn't possible. You weren't that light of a sleeper that you would fail to notice a pretty girl sitting next to your bedside, and you tell her so. She smoothes a fold in the lines of the bedclothes and the sad look returns to her eyes. She smiles, the most beautiful smile to ever break a man's heart. Of course not, she tells you, I wake you up every time.

And again you want to tell her she's being ridiculous, but you do not say it. There is something wrong with her, with her being here, with the whole situation. And as you glance around your room you notice that everything has stopped. Not just the whir of white noise that lulls you to sleep because you don't have her whisperings in your ear, not just the glow made by the insomniacs outside your window, but the pulse of life and breath of the earth has ceased. And you notice she is crying.

You pull her close, disregarding the silk of your nightshirt that won't take kindly to her tears. In her arms you rock her, run your fingers through her hair, make promises that will shine differently in daylight. Soothed a little but not nearly enough, she goes on to say what you thought she might but hadn't really believed possible. I stopped time, she says, I stopped it to come here to see you, and because of it I bring myself to ruination!

You want to interrupt her here, contradict her, but you do not. You wait, and she continues, hiding her face against your skin. Because I stop time, she says, it's like this has never happened. I come here to you, to bare my heart and soul and give you everything only for it to be like nothing when the sun rises. Night after night I try and every time you look at me the same way. The look you give me every time I try to tell you what I want to be to you. The look that lets me know you don't believe it, that you don't believe that anything I have and everything I am is yours. That you are safe and happy with your knowledge that this is all a dream. But it's worse then a dream because you won't even remember it happened.

You tilt up her chin until she is looking at you once again. You remember, you say to her. Every time, she answers. Then why come back, you ask. Because I … and she drops her eyes again, and you decide for once that it's probably better that she never finished that sentence. What could she say to help the situation? Because I have to, it's punishment for a cosmic joke and you are the unwitting accomplice adding to her sorrow. Because I needed to, she's looking for an answer and you don't even know the question. Because I love you. You fear the last the most, what could become of such a love? Nothing. Nothing. Ignoring the ache in your body when you think about her, pretending like your mouth doesn't come up at the corners when you imagine what forever with her would be like, most of all denying that knowing voice in the corner of your mind, the one with the direct link to your heart, telling you exactly what you didn't want to know. Nothing can come of it.

And she knows it too, and that's why she comes back. To cry in your arms once more, hoping that this time you will realize it. That you will stop the ignoring, pretending, and denying. That you will let her in, and let her stay. And tomorrow when you wake up, not only will you remember, she will still be there. And you'll watch the way her eyes light up and her cheeks flush when she sees that you are just sitting there, smiling as you watched her dreaming.

But this is all a dream to you, isn't it? Nothing from the moment you lifted your head from the fabric-softened pillowcase has been real. Which is why she's sitting up now, drying her eyes and pulling away from you. Again, she has failed, and she knows it. She can't make you see, not tonight. She'll be back though. You won't know it, of course, and you will look at her like you do every time, like it's the first time. And you will keep hiding from the true feelings in your heart until the day comes when either you break free from your denial, or she stops coming. And you know this. So you look at her as she steps back from the bed, and speak a few words. They may hold comfort for her, or they may not, but you feel the need to give her something, since she will leave with nothing else. You don't know where the words you say come from; they simply appear and spring forth from your lips, not the words she wants of course, but maybe a start.

And you put your head back down on your pillow, surrendering yourself back to the dark blue sheets and cream-colored blankets. You lose her gaze then, as she turns away to hide what you already know and will forget come morning. You feel like you should be surprised – shocked, fearful even – of what this night could have brought. Instead you're simply tired, so you close your eyes and go back to sleep, not hearing the whir as the white noise begins again, nor the soft sounds of her heart breaking as the earth breathes once more.

A little bit angsty, I know, to be true

But do unto others as you'd have done to you

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Thanks! Much love.