They are well used to nightmares. Drowning. Eaten by sharks. Struck by lightning. Shot in bed. Falling off a bridge. Dying.
What a scared child they were.
Eventually, the nightmares faded. Slowly.
The fear lingered but they no longer woke up short of breath, the faintest choked out words squeezed from their throat.
They hardly dreamt at all now.
Or if they did, they didn't remember.
Oh, the cruelest nightmares...
Aren't the ones that have them drowning alone in the sea. Or facing the long forgotten figure of their father. Not even the sharp words and barbs that they remember from their family.
The cruelest nightmares were dreams.
The rare dream they would have, the vestiges of it that they would remember in the morning.
He was there. In messages that never changed. In his voice. Telling them about his day and flustering so easily at even the slightest hint of provocation. His shy stutters and pauses flooding their ears. His usual self-deprecation and half-hearted smile.
They took his hand in theirs, intertwining their fingers awkwardly. It was warm. Comfortable. And they huffed at his self-deprecating manner. They called him a "good man." And he believed it for once. Relaxed in their presence. Looked them in the eyes more easily.
Sometimes they kissed. Sometimes not.
Sometimes they didn't even hold hands.
Sometimes he wasn't even there in front of them.
Sometimes when they dreamt, they only dreamt of messages, not even calls. Of that feeling of excitement and eagerness. Words typed out in front of them. Back and forths that lasted hours.
The nightmares they had as a child were never as cruel as this. To dangle such a fantasy right before their eyes and sweep it away with the morning light.
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