The Boy in my dreams

I had always believed that some dreams were just dreams—unreachable, untouchable, and impossible. And yet, for the past year, every night I had the same dream: a boy with dark hair, deep hazel eyes, and a smile that made my heart skip a beat. I had never met him… not in real life. And yet, every night, he felt so real, so close, like he was whispering secrets meant only for me. But last Tuesday, my dream stepped out of sleep and into reality. I was running late for school, as usual. My uniform slightly wrinkled, my backpack slipping off one shoulder, and my hair a messy halo around my face. I rushed into the crowded hallways, trying to ignore the whispers and sidelong glances from classmates who were always more fashionable, more popular, more everything. And then I saw him. Standing by the lockers, leaning casually against the wall, was him. My dream. The boy from every night for a year. Only now… he was very real, very alive, and very much in front of me. I froze. My backpack slipped to the floor. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. He turned his head, and our eyes met. My heartbeat accelerated. It wasn’t possible… it couldn’t be him. Yet, his hazel eyes, warm and intense, stared back, almost as if he recognized me, almost as if he had been waiting for me. “Are you okay?” he asked, stepping closer, his voice calm and unexpectedly gentle. “I… I’m fine,” I stammered, cheeks burning. And then, disaster. My shoelace, which I had somehow neglected in my morning panic, betrayed me. I tripped, stumbled forward… and crashed directly into him. Books tumbled everywhere. Papers fluttered like startled birds. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to sink through the floor. I wanted… literally anything but the embarrassment unfolding in front of the boy of my dreams. He caught me, steadying my arms. His grip was strong, careful, but not too tight. “You’ve got a lot of stuff,” he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. I groaned. “You have no idea.” He laughed—a sound that made my stomach twist, like butterflies doing acrobatics. “I’m Liam,” he said, finally kneeling to help me pick up the scattered books and papers. I swallowed hard, trying to steady my voice. “A-Alice,” I whispered. And in that moment, the impossible happened. My dream, the boy who had haunted my nights, was here, in the chaotic, real-life mess of my morning, and he was smiling at me. Smiling… at me. It felt unreal. Like a scene from one of those cheesy romance novels I pretended I didn’t read. But then reality came crashing back. A group of his friends walked past, snickering. “Careful, Alice,” one of them called, teasing. “You almost killed the legend of Westbrook High.” My face burned hotter. Legend? Of course he was popular. Of course. That was why he had been the boy in my dreams—the unattainable, perfect, unreachable kind of boy. Liam—my dream—looked at me, eyebrow raised, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Well,” he said softly, still crouched next to me, “I think you survived. But just barely.” I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. But my feet felt glued to the floor. And that’s when I realized… my life had just changed forever. Because dreams, it seemed, didn’t always stay in sleep.