“There are things about me you don’t know,” he says.
He is not my dream, and a part of me knows it, though that part likes to pretend otherwise. He walks around, a canvas in my mind, on which I’ve painted wishes. They slide off as easily as rain from glass when he speaks or leaves or stares right through me, and each time my longing grows a little less substantial, a little less important.
It is a dream of another life. One tiny window of possibility that slipped by unrecognized. Each word between us confirms the possibility never existed.