Page 13 of Laced in Longing

The dream slips away, leaving me grasping at nothing as consciousness rushes back. I jolt awake, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, sheets tangled around my legs. Sweat slicks my skin despite how cold I am, clinging uncomfortably to my back and chest. For a moment, I lie still, staring at the ceiling in an attempt to collect my scattered thoughts.

The dream feels more substantial than usual, and I still register the strange tug of his presence calling to something deep within me.

I know the shape of your soul.

What the fuck does that even mean? Who talks like that, except characters in the fantasy novels I escape into? Not real people.

Not sane people, anyway.

But he’s not real, I remind myself. He’s a delusion of my mind. A construct of my lonely, touch-starved brain, creating companions where none exist.

Except for the flowers. Those are real.

The thought propels me upright, eyes darting to my nightstand and today’s offering.

No, today’s offerings.

Two flowers lie side by side, positioned with such care. The first is a yellow tulip with orange spots that bleed into the petals. Beside it rests another tulip, bright purple with streaks of burgundy running from its center. Both are perfectly preserved, neither showing signs of final decay despite their obvious age.

He’s never left two before.

I cradle them in my palm, studying the intricate patterns of veins. They feel significant, though I couldn’t begin to guess their meaning. A message I’m not equipped to decode, but one that twitches the corners of my mouth.

After relocating them to their new home, I jolt at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. For a moment, I barely recognize myself—eyes too bright, cheeks flushed, something almost alive in my expression that hasn’t been there for years. Maybe ever.

“What’s happening to me?” I whisper to the empty apartment, not expecting an answer.

Maybe the medications are finally working…but that thought is fleeting. I’ve been taking these pills for years and they’ve done nothing but ruin my appetite and cause me distress from having to visit the pharmacy.

My palms press against my eyes until colored patterns bloom behind the lids as I try to organize my thoughts into something coherent. The facts, as I understand them:

1. I dream of a man in a Victorian coat with a veiled face.

2. He leaves flowers on my nightstand while I sleep.

3. He claims to know me, to have always known me.

4. I believe him—or, want to.

The last point catches me off-guard, a truth I hadn’t admitted even to myself until this moment. Some part of me desperately wants to believe what he says, even if it isn’t much. Or possible. Whatever is happening to me, whatever rabbit hole my mind is tumbling down, the flowers are real. Tangible evidence that something beyond my understanding is occurring.

Maybe I’m not losing my mind. Maybe I’m finally finding it.

The sun has risen fully now, pale winter light filtering through my curtains. Saturday stretches before me, empty of obligations or expectations. In Boston, this would be the kind of day where I’d drag the covers back over my head and sleep until my body forced me awake with thirst or hunger. Here in Montréal, for the first time in memory, I find myself not dreading the hours ahead but curious about them.

Will he appear in my waking hours as well as my dreams? He must, if his confessions are to be believed.

The possibility isn’t entirely unpleasant.

“Who are you?” I ask the empty air, half-hoping that a deep voice will answer from just behind me.

Silence greets my question. Of course it does. Dream figures don’t follow you into daylight. They stay contained in the theater of sleep, appearing only when the curtain of consciousness falls.

He said that I will remember everything, in time. The statement implies that there are things I’ve forgotten, memories just beyond my grasp. I want to figure out what I could have lost.

When was the last time I felt genuinely curious about anything? Or wanted answers instead of just numbness?

I make tea and stare out the window as the mug lifts to my lips. Steam fogs my vision momentarily, and when in clears, I almost drop the drink as my feet stumble back.