My Friend’s Last Words Came in a Dream

It’s been a year since Lily passed away, but sometimes it still feels like she might text me, or I’ll turn a corner and see her laughing in that way only she could. Grief is strange like that—it never really goes away, it just changes shape.

Last night, I had a dream. I know dreams can be just random pieces of our mind stitched together, but this… this was different.

In the dream, I was sitting on the bench at Riverside Park—the same one where Lily and I used to meet after school. The air felt heavy, like right before a summer storm. I could hear the rustle of leaves, the soft hum of the city in the distance. Everything felt real—so real I could smell the faint scent of her perfume.

Then I saw her.

She was walking toward me, her hair catching the light like it always did. She wore that old denim jacket she loved, the one with the faded sunflower patch on the sleeve. For a moment, I forgot she was gone. I stood up, smiling, ready to run to her.

“Lily?” My voice cracked.

She smiled, but it wasn’t her usual big grin—it was softer, almost sad. She came closer until we were just a step apart. She reached out and held my hand. Her touch was warm, not ghostly or cold. Warm like it used to be.

“You look tired,” she said gently.

I wanted to tell her everything. How I missed her every single day. How I kept her number saved in my phone even though I knew it would never light up again. How I avoided going to Riverside Park because it hurt too much. But the words got stuck in my throat.

She squeezed my hand. “Don’t forget me.”

Her voice was clear—so clear it still echoes in my head as I write this. It wasn’t desperate, or demanding. It was… pleading, but with love.

“I could never forget you,” I whispered.

She smiled again, and for a second, it felt like everything was okay. Like the pain of the last year hadn’t happened. But then she started to step back.

“Wait—please don’t go,” I said, pulling at her hand.

She shook her head, still smiling, but her eyes shimmered like she might cry. “I can’t stay.”

The moment she let go, the colors around me started to fade, like someone was turning down the brightness on the world. The park grew quiet. I felt that crushing heaviness you get right before you wake up.

And then I was in my bed, staring at the ceiling, my heart racing. The room was dark, except for the faint light from my phone on the nightstand. The time was 3:12 a.m.

I sat there for a long time, replaying every detail in my head. The warmth of her hand. The way her voice sounded exactly like it did when she was alive. The way she said those three words: “Don’t forget me.”

I don’t know if it was just a dream or something more. Maybe it was my brain’s way of holding on to her. Maybe it was her, finding a way to reach me one last time. I’ll never know for sure.

But I do know this: I woke up feeling lighter. For the first time in months, I didn’t feel weighed down by the silence she left behind. Instead, I felt… connected. Like she’s still with me, somewhere.

Today, I went to Riverside Park. I sat on that bench and let the memories come—not just the sad ones, but the happy ones too. I could almost hear her laugh mixing with the wind.

I don’t think she came to tell me she was gone. I think she came to remind me she’s still here, just in a different way. And I think she wanted me to live in a way that would make her proud.

I’m writing this down so I never forget the dream. So I never forget her voice. And so maybe—if someone else has ever had a dream like this—they’ll know they’re not alone.

Lily’s last words weren’t about her fading away. They were about making sure I carry her forward with me, wherever I go.

And I will. Always.