Penelope’s dull life transformed into vibrant dreamscapes when a charming stranger, Thierry, entered her dreams. Caught between two realities, she found herself lost in a love that almost killed her.
My apartment’s quiet always hit hardest on weekday evenings—hollow, echoing with unspoken words. As I entered my small, tidy apartment, I tossed my keys on the table, grabbed frozen lasagna, and ate in front of the TV, the emptiness filling the room. Another day, just like the last.
But then, one morning, I woke up in a café, greeted by Thierry, a kind man who offered me a cappuccino. We spent hours talking, laughing, and strolling through a colorful flower market. As our hands brushed, I felt something warm inside me. But the world began to fade, and Thierry’s voice promised, “I will find you again.”
When I woke, it felt like a dream—until it happened again. Thierry and I shared picnics, walks, and deep conversations, each dream more vivid than the last. My waking life at the library faded. Days blurred as I kept longing to return to sleep and to him.
One night, Thierry proposed, and I said yes, feeling a love like no other. But as the world around us faded, I woke to pounding at my door. Gia, my friend, found me in a feverish daze. I was losing grip on reality, the lines between dream and waking life fading, my body consumed by the love I found in my dreams.
I closed my eyes, hoping to return to the dream, but sleep wouldn’t come. Moments later, my mother rushed in, looking worried.
“Penelope, what happened?” she asked, kneeling beside me.
“I’m fine,” I muttered, turning away.
“No, you’re not,” she insisted. “You haven’t answered my calls, and people haven’t seen you for days.”
“I’m just tired,” I mumbled weakly.
“You’re dehydrated,” she said, pressing water to my lips. “You need help.”
“I don’t,” I protested, but I could barely sit up, my vision blurring.
The last thing I heard was her calling for help.
I was walking down a flower-lined aisle in a white dress, bouquet in hand, heading toward Thierry at the altar. The world seemed to disappear as we exchanged vows and kissed, feeling like home.
Then, in an instant, we were on a tropical island, living the dream honeymoon. The sunset glowed as we shared our love, but soon I felt myself slipping away, Thierry’s voice calling me back.
I awoke to bright lights and sirens. Paramedics hovered above me, and my mother squeezed my hand, tears in her eyes.
“You’re going to be okay,” she said, as they rushed me to the hospital.
Doctors diagnosed me with severe dehydration and malnutrition. Despite their care, I couldn’t dream anymore. Thierry felt lost to me.
As weeks passed, I began therapy and slowly recovered. But my life felt emptier. I hadn’t dreamed of Thierry since my hospitalization. I shared my memories with my therapist, and she suggested writing about him to process my grief.
I began writing, and soon a love story emerged—one where Thierry existed again, in a world where dreams and reality intertwined. It brought color back to my life.
Months later, I stood before a publishing house with my manuscript in hand—a story of a woman who met the love of her life in her dreams. It wasn’t exactly my story, but it felt true.
As I walked inside, I felt hope again—not for a return to the dream, but for something new. Maybe I could bring some magic into this world, and find that connection once more.