It was one of those dreams where everything is softer, slower, like watching the world through a sheet of old glass. I was standing on a street that felt like somewhere I’d been before—a town that might have been mine, or maybe hers. The sky was a hushed shade of violet, the kind that happens just before a storm, when the world holds its breath.

And then Megan was there.

She wasn’t far, just at the edge of the sidewalk, half in the light, half in the shadows, her hair lifted slightly by a breeze that wasn’t real. She had that look—the one she used to give me when we were almost something. A tilt of the head, a trace of a smile, something unreadable in her eyes. I wanted to call out to her, but my voice caught in my throat, as if the dream itself had decided that words weren’t allowed.

She walked toward me, slow and deliberate, as if she knew the rules better than I did.

“You still dream about me?” she asked, though her lips never moved.

Not a single moment, not a single night, but all of it. The brush of her fingers once, in a crowded room. The way her laughter always seemed to linger in the air a little longer than anyone else’s. The almosts. The nearlys. The things that never happened but could have, should have.

I nodded.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

No fanfare, no goodbyes. Just the empty street, the hush of violet light, the feeling of something unfinished curling around the edges of the dream.

I woke up reaching for her name, but it slipped away like a wisp of smoke, vanishing before I could catch it.