She slipped into sleep like a letter into silk,
the sheets cool against her wrists,
and there, in the country behind her eyes,
he was waiting—
not the boy who left,
but the version she kept polished and breathing.
He stood at the edge of a lake made of midnight,
water so still it held every star twice.
She ran, barefoot, laughing the way she used to
before the world taught her caution.
His arms opened the way doors open in dreams—
without sound, without question.
They kissed, and the kiss tasted of almost,
of every tomorrow they never reached.
She felt her heart swell, a paper lantern filling with light,
then burst—
a soft pop, like a bubble against skin.
She thought: this is what dying feels like
when you are already in love.
No pain, only widening,
only the sweet shock of becoming sky.
He held her closer, but she was lighter now,
a ribbon untying itself from his fingers.
Don't go, he said,
or maybe she only dreamed he said it.
She tried to answer—
I'm not leaving, I'm arriving—
but her mouth was full of constellations.
The lake rose to meet her.
She sank, smiling,
thinking his name the way candles think of flame:
quietly, completely,
until there is nothing left to burn.
In the morning the bed was empty,
the pillow cool,
a single dark hair curled like a question mark
against the white.
Somewhere, a girl who never woke
is still kissing him,
still dying of too much love,
and never once regretting it.