The Girl Who Only Existed in My Dreams

I always thought dreams were just meaningless flashes – quiet visitors in the night that left before dawn. But everything changed when she began appearing, night after night, as if she belonged in the quiet corners of my mind.

The first time I saw her was on an unusually cold summer night. I remember walking down a narrow street lined with old brick houses, the streetlights flickering softly in the silent breeze. She stood under one of those lights, wearing a simple white dress, her hair falling over her shoulders like midnight silk. She was looking at the sky, searching for something she had lost long ago. When she turned to me, the world fell silent. Her eyes were filled with sadness, but in them, I saw a calmness that quieted my own restless heart.

I woke up that morning with her image lingering behind my eyelids. I told myself it was just a dream – beautiful but fleeting. But the next night, she returned. This time, we sat together on a park bench under a full moon. Its silver light washed over her face as she spoke softly about her loneliness, about waiting for someone to find her. I wanted to ask her who she was, where she came from, but before I could, my alarm shattered the moment, dragging me back into my silent room.

Days turned into weeks, and each night she visited me. She wasn’t just a dream character anymore. She became real to me. Her name was Aira. She told me about her childhood, how she used to read by the window during rain, her favourite jasmine flowers, her fear of thunderstorms, and her dream of travelling to the mountains. She would smile when she spoke of small joys – hot tea on winter mornings, the smell of old books, the warmth of holding someone’s hand. I never told anyone about her. How could I explain that the girl I loved only existed behind closed eyes?

One night, I gathered the courage to ask her why she came to me. Her eyes filled with tears as she whispered, “Because you’re the only one who sees me.” Her voice trembled as she added, “I’m trapped between dreams and life. Every morning when you wake up, I fade a little more. I don’t want to disappear.”

That morning, I woke up crying. All day, everything felt muted. My friends laughed at lunch, my colleagues talked endlessly about deadlines and meetings, but I could only think of her fading away while I walked under fluorescent lights and grey skies.

The next night, I found her by a quiet river. She wasn’t wearing white anymore. She wore a sky-blue dress, and her hair was tied in a loose braid. She looked tired, like someone who hadn’t slept in days. I sat beside her and held her hand. It felt cold, like touching morning dew on grass. I noticed tiny scars on her wrist, fading like forgotten stories.

“Please don’t leave me,” I whispered.

She smiled faintly. “You can keep me alive, but only if you remember me when you’re awake. Promise me you won’t forget.”

“I promise,” I said, squeezing her hand as if that alone could keep her there forever. She closed her eyes, leaning her head on my shoulder, and for the first time, we sat in silence without fear of her fading.

That was the last night I saw her. For weeks after, she didn’t come. I waited, hoping to find her under a streetlight or by the river, or walking barefoot through the parks of my dreams. But every morning, I woke up alone.

Sometimes I wonder if she was just a figment of my tired imagination. But then I walk past blooming jasmine flowers in hidden corners of the city, or see the moon cast silver light on quiet streets, and I feel her beside me again.

They say dreams are meaningless, but I know she was real. Maybe not in this world of crowded buses and flickering screens, but in that quiet place between sleep and morning, she existed. And as long as I remember her, she still does.