I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

I did not tell you the entire truth today. I can’t help my dreams, so it wasn’t my fault I dreamt. I can’t guess my subconscious or your reaction to it, so I stay silent. Here is my dream of you:- It was dark, yet your face was illuminated, by the television, I’m guessing. I know you wore leggings, for I felt you legs, ran my fingers across their outer lengths. We talked, about us, what we were doing. You said to me that you had heard I was scared of girls, I admitted shyness. You asked if I was scared of you, I said no. We kissed, I remember the kiss. Then the embrace. I don’t tell you this, because I’m hoping that my dream might come true. I know the truth now, but it is far from my hands and I am helpless. I love you – the girl of my dreams – I know it’s true. Why? Because only love can make you cry.

I wonder which girl that I obsessed about I was dreaming of. Also, I should note that at this point of my life I felt guilty when I dreamed of other people for some reason. Unless the dream was completely ridiculous, I thought that someone knowing what I thought of them during my sleep would reveal too much of myself to them. Some crazy warped version of being shy, I’m guessing.