I Keep Dreaming About Him Like He’s Still Here

Some nights, I wake up drenched in sweat, his name stuck on my tongue like a secret I wasn’t supposed to say out loud.

Other nights, I wake up smiling, convinced for a fleeting moment that he’s downstairs, making coffee like nothing ever happened.

But he’s not.

He’s gone.

And still, I keep dreaming about him like he’s still here.

I never believed in signs, or dreams with deeper meanings. I used to laugh at the idea that people we’ve lost “visit” us in sleep. But now? Now I’m the one waking up at 3:17 a.m., heart pounding, tears in my eyes, whispering his name into the dark.

The truth is, sleep has become the only place where I can touch him again.


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A Familiar Stranger

In the dream, he’s always the same — alive. Whole. Unchanged. Wearing that worn-out hoodie he refused to throw away. That crooked smile I used to tease him about. The laugh that came from his chest, not just his mouth.

He talks like nothing’s different.

Sometimes, we walk along a beach that doesn’t exist. Other times, we’re in our old apartment, watching some dumb comedy he loved. And always, always, he looks me in the eyes like he knows. Like he’s aware that I’m only borrowing him for a few more minutes.

And I never want to wake up.

But I always do.


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Waking Up Is the Hardest Part

Grief doesn’t just follow you through the day — it haunts your sleep. There’s a cruel comfort in those dreams. Because for those brief moments, everything is okay again. He’s not gone. I’m not broken.

But the second I open my eyes, reality crashes back like a wave, and I lose him all over again. It’s a fresh kind of pain. Like tearing open the same wound each morning and pretending it doesn’t still bleed.

Some mornings, I can’t get out of bed. Not because I’m lazy, or tired, or weak — but because the silence in the house feels louder after I’ve just heard his voice again.


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What Do the Dreams Mean?

I’ve tried to figure it out. Googled every possible explanation.

> “It’s unresolved emotions.” “He’s visiting you.” “Your subconscious is processing the trauma.” “It’s normal. It’ll fade in time.”



But it hasn’t. Not for me.

The truth is, I don’t know what the dreams mean. And maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe they don’t have to mean anything. Maybe they’re just the only way my heart can survive the absence my mind still doesn’t fully accept.


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Everyone Else Has Moved On

Grief makes you invisible after a while.

At first, people check in. They send flowers. They say, “I’m here for you,” and maybe they mean it. But life moves on. People move on.

Except me.

Because I’m still stuck somewhere between goodbye and wake up. Between the memories I can’t touch and the dreams I don’t want to leave.

And every time I say his name, I feel like I’m breaking some kind of unspoken rule: You’re not supposed to still be talking about him.
But how can I stop talking about someone who still shows up in my dreams like he never left?


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If You’re Dreaming of Someone Too

If you’re reading this and you’ve been there — waking up crying, or smiling, or holding your breath because they were just here — I want you to know something:

You’re not crazy.

You’re not broken.

And you’re definitely not alone.

Sometimes, our souls just aren’t ready to let go. Sometimes the heart needs to visit what the world says is gone.

Let it.

Don’t rush to forget. Don’t feel guilty for remembering. Let the dreams come, if they come. And when they do, greet them like the gift they are — a quiet, painful, beautiful reminder that love doesn’t just vanish.


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He Lives Where I Sleep

I don’t know if the dreams will ever stop. A part of me hopes they won’t.

Because in that quiet place, between dusk and dawn, I get to see him again. I get to laugh with him. I get to say all the things I never got to say when time ran out.

And maybe that’s enough.

Or maybe it will be, someday.

For now, I’ll close my eyes each night with hope and fear — hope that I’ll see him again, and fear of waking up to the silence that always follows.

Because I keep dreaming about him like he’s still here.

And maybe… in some way, he still is.