It’s you. The man in front of my door. I am perplexed. How? Why? Why are you here? I see the guitar leaning against the wall and a bag is next to your feet. You see me. I know it, but my hands can’t seem to find the handle to let you in. And the moment they do, I take a step back, unable to speak and to understand that it is you. Here. In my home. You don’t belong here. But you fit so well.
I recognise you from afar. The dreadlocks, the way you carry yourself, the smile. It’s all you. The man I met online. The man I fell in love with solely by sharing text messages and speaking on the phone. And now I am there to meet you. A bit off to the side, I recognise your brother with a beautiful woman holding his hand. They are carefully observing the scene. I don’t know how to greet you. But I can’t stop smiling. The moment the tips of my Converse touch yours, I feel a weight drop off my chest. I see your pale green eyes for the first time, and I kiss you. There is no other way. We take the bus to your home so that I can drop off my luggage. I take your hand, exploring your fingers. Speaking with you is natural. There is a flow and an ease. It carries into my subconsciousness. Behind us, your brother and girlfriend are judging us, speaking in French. They don’t know that I understand every single word they say. But it is okay. They are saying nice things, mostly.
Pregnant, and you are not there. You are travelling the world for your job, salvaging your career and your legacy. And I am pregnant. It’s a boy. I decided to call him Aiden. You are over the moon to have a son, and yet, you can’t be with me. We cannot be a couple, not even for the kid. You need to leave. And I am trying to convince you that it is okay.
Dream a little dream. (or two, or three)