I’ve dreamed of her twice.
Not the vague kind where faces blur into fog—
but her.
Clear. Real.
As if my heart projected her onto the reel of sleep.

The first time was quiet.
She was there like a hum in the background,
a warmth I didn’t want to lose.
I didn’t reach for her.
But I felt her.

The second time stayed longer.

Her friends were goofing off,
throwing playful karate kicks into the air.
I joined them, green belt pride in my chest.
But my leg slipped—
and I hit her by accident.

Right on the chest.

My heart dropped.
I ran to her side,
whispered,
"I'm so sorry… does it hurt? I didn’t mean to."

Then I hugged her.
Tightly.
Like I was afraid I’d never get the chance again.

She didn’t pull away.
She held me.
Softly, calmly.
Said it was okay.

Her friends walked away.
But we stayed.
Wrapped in silence.

I started to let go.
But she pulled me back.
Tighter.

And so I hugged her again.
Even tighter.

That’s when I woke up.
Blushing.
Breathless.
My heart still hugging her.