3. Dreaming of my Hatred for Citrus.

You accompanied me on the bench where we had shared countless memories before, although there was a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that made this day feel different from the rest. The streetlights above us buzzed in disarray, sirens blared off into the distance until the dissonance could no longer register within our hearing, and leaves fell from their fragile branches, which seemed to cower from the gusts of unforgiving wind.  

Before I was lost in the sea of my own thoughts, it dawned on me that you had said nothing for a long time, and neither had I. We were left with the beating of our hearts, tangling together for the sole purpose of occupying the silence.  I sat there, pondering whether our silence would ever be broken in the time we had left to spend with one another. I knew this would be the last time you’d be in my life, though I did not want to allow that thought to consume me—at least not yet.  

I dreamed day after day, night after night, about you and what we could have become. With you, I could have conquered anything. I could have done all the things that people on their deathbeds wish they had done while in the prime of their existence. I would have lived on earth with little to no regrets in the end, for my life would have been complete.  I pondered whether you’d ever reach over and grasp my hands in yours, even for a fraction of a second. I wanted to feel you in your entirety, to experience you in all your beauty, and run my hands down the tips of your fingers, to your palms, and then to your wrists to feel that faint pulse through the same rough, calloused hands I often got lost in thought about. 

"Hey,” you finally said. 

God, how I had always adored the way you spoke. I thought time had frozen when you uttered that single word to me, but then I came to a realization. I felt all the unpleasant things seemingly at once—the freezing wind nipping at my exposed fingers, the way the collar of my shirt seemed to tighten around my throat—but at that moment, I didn’t want to care. I knew that if our silence became anything more than what it was, it would be the end of the line for us. I couldn’t muster the courage to stop you from speaking. I could barely turn to face you in our final, fleeting moments. 

"You were always good at doing things for me. But today, I decided I would peel my own oranges. I don’t need your help anymore." You didn’t bother to move your gaze from the horizon, and I reluctantly did the same. I knew you knew that if our eyes met, we would be stuck, just as before.  

I paused. I never knew how much I hated breaking silence—or citrus—until then. How was I supposed to feel? I could not understand myself, or even you, at that moment. I convinced myself that I didn’t know if I could feel anymore. 

The irony of it all is that my heart continued to beat within the cavity of my chest just as it did the day before. “What was I always dreaming about?”