This is a dream.
It was a dream I knew well—a dream that held a special significance for me—so I knew right away. My dreams are almost always incoherent. The conversations I have in them and the things that happen to me are random and illogical, but somehow, I still never realize that I’m dreaming.
But this recurring dream is different. It’s logical, consistent, and feels just like real life. There’s a sense of warmth and solitude to it as well, yet in spite of its realism, I always immediately know that it’s a dream. I know that I’m dreaming whether I want to or not.
In this particular dream, I live in everlasting darkness. The world is pitch-black, cold, and desolate, without the slightest glimmer of light to be seen. That darkness is all I’ve even known—and yet it doesn’t feel like some terrible hardship. Even if I can’t see, there’s always someone there with me holding my hand.
Sometimes the hand is soft, its grip gentle. That’s my brother. He’s been holding my hand for as long as I can remember. His grip is reassuring.
Sometimes the hand’s grasp is a little stronger, more full of emotion. That’s the girl who’s like an older sister to me. I know exactly how she feels about my brother, but I keep everything she tells me a secret from him. It can stay between the two of us until she becomes my sister for real one day.
And sometimes...the hand is timid. Its grasp is cautious, almost fearful, like it’s worried it might break me with the slightest touch. I can tell in an instant that it’s him.
His hand is slightly rough to the touch, his grasp a little too clumsy to call gentle. I can’t say whether it’s full of emotion or not—it’s more like he doesn’t know how to express his feelings. Still, though, his hand fills my heart with warmth and comfort more than anyone else’s.
I want to be special to him someday—like my brother is to my future sister. My heart is set on him. Even I realize how strange that is: compared with everyone else in my life, I’ve barely spent any time with him at all, and yet somehow, I just know. My heart races when I feel his touch. Hearing his voice is all it takes to fill me with joy.
But at the same time, I’m nervous. I can’t help but wonder: what does he think of me? Me, the blind girl who wouldn’t be able to live without having someone else around to help her?
Does he think I’m weak? Pathetic? Or worse, unsightly?
Just the thought of him seeing me like that is painful. I thought I’d accepted that side of myself. I always knew that I was defective. I knew that I was a burden—a pointless, petty existence whose only purpose was to be protected. I’d accepted it, but for some reason, I don’t want him to think of me that way. I know this is selfish of me, but I want to stand on even footing with him.
I don’t just want to be protected—I want to protect him. I don’t just want to be doted upon—I want to dote on him. I want him to show me the frailty he keeps hidden away from the rest of the world. I know that it’s impossible, that he’d never...but I want it anyway.
Day by day, he grows more and more important to me. Day by day, the emotion building in my heart overwhelms me. It’s an emotion I’ve never felt before, and I know it’s leading me around by the nose, but still, I can’t stop it. I don’t want to stop it.
If I could see, I’d never let him out of my sight. I’d comfort him whenever he looked sad. I’d smile right alongside him whenever he smiled. I’d run right over to him whenever I caught sight of him. I want to hold his hand.
But I couldn’t. I was a burden to him all the way to the very end. I made him cry. I made him suffer. I never overcame my weakness.
Please, God—if I can be reborn, then please, let me meet him again. Let me meet the strong and reliable, yet frail and gentle boy I loved once more.
❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤
“Ah...”
I woke up. The pitch-black veil was broken, though the room I woke up in was still dark. I could dimly make out the familiar features of my own room’s ceiling above me.
“I knew it was a dream,” I mumbled to myself, a little dejected but at the same time a little relieved. It hurt to breathe, and I was so drenched in sweat it was like I’d just come inside from a downpour. The dampness on my cheeks, however, wasn’t sweat at all. The moment I realized that, my tears began to well up once more. I sobbed. I felt a crushing sensation in my chest, so much so that it was actually painful. My tears just wouldn’t stop, and I knew why. I was crying because I didn’t know why I was in so much pain.
It might’ve seemed crazy to other people, but to me, that dream was nothing unusual. I’d been having it for as long as I could remember, and I was very familiar with it. I’d never told anyone about it, though. Not my parents and not my brother either.
Even as a child, I understood that if I told them, they’d assume I was just being weird. As I grew up, reaching the same age as the me in my dreams and developing a concept of common sense, I realized just how right that instinctual understanding had been.
There’s another “me” inside me. I don’t have a split personality or anything like that, but in a strange way that I can’t really explain, I’ve always felt that way. Every once in a while she’ll appear in my dreams and teach me all about the joy she felt when she met him and the deep-seated regret she felt for the fact that her death caused him to suffer.