In her dreams, everything is warm and right. Like late summer evenings on screened porches. And time is measured by the length of a quiet song that makes her think of the colors of sunrises and sunsets. And sometimes laughter is bouncing from ceilings and echoing, echoing until the ringing of it in her ears awakens her and she feels lost until she falls asleep again. Then she is wrapped once more in something that feels like contentment, but still excites her, lights her up. Something she wakes up and tries to name and can only think of a word that causes her to stop breathing.
He's there in her dreams. Always. With his fingers and palms running along the expanse of her body. And it feels like being protected. The way his arms encircle her entirely until she becomes certain this is her world, where she's supposed to be. His grasp on her is loose though and when she slips out of it, he smiles. And he's beautiful and she wakes up to the sun and her own smile playing on her lips.
Reality is the jarring sound of the shower coming on and the empty space next to her in bed.
During the waking hours, she finds herself with her eyes closed, searching her eyelid canvas for that place. When she opens her eyes, he's there. Right in front of her. But it isn't contentment that wells up inside her when he bites his lip and looks at whatever's in front of him. It's something gnawing, something that hurts. Not like in her dreams. And so she closes her eyes again.
She finds him there and it's easier. Everything is tinted a deep orange because the sun is meeting the horizon. And his eyes, his eyes, his eyes. It's all she can see there. No, she sees more than just his eyes. There's something within them. Something like a promise.
Her eyes open. He isn't there at his desk and she doesn't know what to make of how much it hurts.
And it's like she told the crew back when- "Dreams are just that. They're dreams."
It doesn't matter that when he walks up to her at five that evening, she sees it in his eyes even though her eyes are wide open now.
It doesn't matter that the line of his jaw and the length of his fingers make her want to ask him absurd questions like what he thinks love is like. Not because she's curious, but because she suddenly has no idea if she's ever known love.
It doesn't matter how much warmth or rightness she feels on the elevator ride to the parking lot, in the slow way he smiles to himself, or in how close she finds herself standing next to him.
It's like she said. They're just something to get you through the day.