Last night, my mind took me somewhere I’ve never been—a mall that doesn’t exist, at least not in waking life. There he was, the man I’ve known since college. Once, I thought I loved him. Maybe I still do in some quiet corner of my heart. But our story has always been tangled—he saw friendship where I saw possibility, and when I finally confessed, he mistook my feelings for something purely physical. Years later, when I tested the waters again, it was still about the body, not the soul.
In my dream, I wrote him a letter that lived in the glowing blue light of a phone screen. I told him I loved him, even knowing he belonged to someone else. I asked him not to block me, to keep the door open for friendship if nothing more could bloom. There was no anger in my words, only a strange mixture of vulnerability and acceptance.
And then, like dreams do, the scene shifted. I was with him, his girlfriend, and her friend, wandering the halls of this unfamiliar mall. They chose an expensive restaurant—too expensive for me. My chest tightened with that quiet shame only money can stir. But then, he spoke. He stood up for me, telling them, “Not everyone has money.” The group changed their minds, and we went elsewhere.
I woke up before we could sit down.
Now I’m left wondering—was the mall a symbol for the paths we never walked together? Was the text my subconscious writing the confession I’ll never send in reality? Was his defense of me a memory that never happened, a kindness I always wished for but never received?
Sometimes dreams are just fragments, strange puzzles of memory, desire, and fear stitched together. But sometimes… they’re the soul’s way of whispering what we can’t say out loud.
So tell me—what do you think my dream was trying to say?
Scarlette Febles 
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