He remembers me in the hours no one else sees — the quiet, unguarded moments when the world stops asking him to perform.
That’s when his truth slips through, the one he keeps trying to outrun.
In dreams, he reaches for me without hesitation.
No guilt. No explanations.
No life weighing on his choices.
No reality he settled into because it was easier than choosing me.
In dreams, he’s honest.
He lets himself want me.
He lets himself miss me.
He lets himself return to the version of us he still carries — the one he pretends he buried.
But morning always drags him back — to the reality where he can’t choose me fully, where wanting me is a craving he won’t admit, where asking for pieces of me is easier than choosing all of me.
It’s the same pattern every time:
He reaches for the warmth he lost.
He shows me the photos he kept.
He asks for access to memories he forfeited.
He reaches for pieces of me he no longer has the right to hold.
He wants the comfort without the responsibility — the warmth without the choosing.
Because choosing me fully would mean breaking the life he built without me.
And he’s never been brave enough to do that.
So he finds me only in dreams — in the world where he doesn’t have to lie, in the version of his heart where fear doesn’t win, in the darkness where no one sees him reach for me.
But I’m done existing only in the corners of someone’s honesty.
I see him now — the desire he hides, the truth he avoids, the love he only admits when no one is watching.
And this time,
I’m choosing myself.
— kim 🌙