If i could choose the dream



🌙 If I Could Choose the Dream

By Haroon

The first thing I feel is warmth—not the kind that comes from sunshine but something softer, like being swaddled in a memory. I’m standing in a field of silvergrass. The wind moves through the blades like whispers. The sky overhead is hazy lavender. Dreamlight. That’s what I’ve decided to call this place: dreamlight.

In this dream, I’m not afraid.

I walk barefoot. The earth hums beneath my steps. Somewhere far off, there's a stream babbling, and closer, the soft purr of cicadas singing their lullabies into the dusk. The air smells like chamomile tea and salt.

Then I hear it—her laughter. It comes like a splash of watercolor over everything else. Not forced or self-conscious, but full and free, like it belonged to someone who had never been broken. I turn, and she’s there: Mira.

Her hair catches the light like wildfire. She’s sitting on a wooden swing tied to a tall, old tree. That tree wasn’t there moments ago, but that’s the logic of dreams—they bend for the heart. And my heart bends toward Mira.

In the waking world, we said goodbye two years ago. Quietly. Respectfully. Brutally. We believed in parting with dignity, as if hurting each other with grace made it more bearable. We’d walk away from what felt too much and too little at once.

But here—here I get to choose.

So I sit beside her on the swing, and she doesn’t shy away. Her fingers graze mine, and neither of us flinches.

“I’ve missed you,” I say.

She smiles but doesn’t answer directly. “You always dream in colors.”

“You remember my dreams?”

“Of course. I used to live in them.”

There’s no bitterness in her voice, just history. And the beauty of dreaming is that history isn’t just something we endure—it’s something we rewrite.

We talk like we used to: about art and philosophy and why dragonflies seem drawn to heartache. We laugh until we cry, and then cry until we laugh. Time has no meaning here, so we let the hours fold over themselves. Mira tells me about her cat that never liked me, and I tell her about my fear of open water. We understand each other, still.

But dreams always have their tides. At some point, the swing creaks louder. The tree begins to shed petals I didn’t notice it had. Mira grows quiet. Her smile fades like the last ember in a fire.

“Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if…” she trails off.

“All the time.”

She tilts her head, then places a hand gently on my cheek. Her eyes are every season I’ve ever lived through. “Then maybe don’t wonder tonight. Just choose.”

I close my eyes.

In the waking world, I can’t bring her back. I can’t take away the pain, the missed calls, or the silence that grew between us like ivy. But in this dream, I choose to hold her. I choose the good, the laughter, the version of us that believed love was enough.

The wind dies down, and the swing stops swaying. The cicadas hush, and even the stream seems to wait. Mira leans into me, forehead to forehead.

“If you choose me,” she says, “you have to let go of everything else.”

I nod. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up differently. Lighter. Less angry. More open. Maybe I’ll start answering my own texts. Maybe I’ll finally paint that canvas I left blank since she walked away.

The dream begins to dissolve.

And as the colors run, Mira whispers, “Thank you for choosing me.”

The alarm on my phone buzzes. Reality returns with its usual density: the cold floors, the endless scroll of news, the coffee that never stays warm.

But before I open my eyes, I smile.

Because last night, for once, I got to choose the dream.