In Your Dreams // phan

e p i l o g u e

My favourite person in the entire world browsed the towering bookshelves, occasionally adding another book to the towering pile in his arms. A precariously balanced tower, liable to fall at any second.

He was attempting to make his way over to a table but another book would always catch his eye. And he couldn't just let that go and come back to it because what if he never found it again? What if, contained within its pages, was the greatest love story ever told? He wasn't about to pass that up simply because his arms were too weak to carry the load.

He awkwardly tried to bend down to pluck another one off of the shelf. I saw how his pile was teetering; he wasn't going to be able to keep it balanced for much longer. I wanted to yell out to warn him but I couldn't do that, obviously. This was a dream after all.

The books in his arms fell tumbling to the floor with a heavy thud. But hey, at least he had both hands free to grab the new one. He picked it up and briefly skimmed the cover before turning to the blurb on the back.

He smiled as he read the description. Yes. This one sounded good. He was pulled out of his own little bubble of happiness by one of the librarians clearing her throat in annoyance. He looked up at her, blue eyes gleaming with excitement, as she gestured to the mountain of books strewn haphazardly across the floor.

"I'll pick them up, I promise," he said with a brilliant smile, already starting to re-stack the books in his arms. The librarian narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him before stalking off. Her hostility didn't faze him, however. He was too eager to start reading.

With difficulty and with unwavering optimism that he could manage it, he finally made his way over to a free table, onto which he impressively transferred his pile of books. He picked up the last, and most interesting, book to make it onto his pile and opened up to the first page.

Nothing much else happened for a while. He became utterly absorbed in the story, only pausing to take out a piece of scrap paper and jot down the author's name. Because her writing was brilliant and he was definitely going to have to check out more of her work.

The only thing that happened to majorly break up the uniformity of the scene was when the brown haired boy bumped into his table, causing the pile of books to fall over once again. "Sorry."

After the initial shock of being attacked by books I felt Phil's heart skip a bit when he looked up. He eyes landed on me, the dream me, and a smile instantly lit up his face.

"No problem. It's actually my fault for stacking that many books like that."

I knew how the rest of the dream would go, but I was more than happy to relive it. Because this was my favourite memory. This was the memory that changed everything. The entire course of my life could have been different if not for that single moment in time. A moment, entirely dependent on my own clumsiness and Phil's inability to pass up a promising novel.

When my eyelids fluttered open my hand reached out automatically seeking Phil's warmth. He was already awake and met my hand with his own, lazily lacing our fingers together.

"I love you," he whispered, a contented smile plastered on his face. He looked so damn beautiful in that moment. He was always beautiful, of course, but with his messy bed hair and the soft morning light creeping through the gaps in our bedroom blinds he looked beyond normal beauty. He was breathtakingly radiant.

"I love you too," I mumbled sleepily. We didn't need to say more than that. It was clear that we had the same dream. It was written all over his face; in the smile that played on his lips and the gleam that danced in his eyes.

Phil lifted our intertwined hands to his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss to my fingers. This was the best way to wake up, there was no doubt about it.

Perhaps that dream wasn't my favourite memory. Perhaps it was this one, unfolding right now. Or perhaps it was any one of those mornings where we woke up exactly like this. And we'd recount our dreams as we brushed the hair out of each other's eyes and reaffirmed our affections through feather light kisses and touches.

Some mornings were more difficult than others. Some mornings required soothing whispers and comforting cuddles to stop tears in their tracks and shoulders from shaking. But that was okay. It was nothing we couldn't handle.

Nothing can force love, not even the universe. Love is fluid and surprising and weird and complex. It's not something that can necessarily be planned out or predestined. And that's how you know it's genuine. When it's not swayed by external forces. When it takes root of its own accord and is permitted to grow at its own pace.

Phil was the connoisseur when it came to romance novels but I think even he'd agree that this story - the one between the boy reluctant to accept love and the boy with endless amounts to give – was by far the greatest love story ever told.

Maybe not in the eyes of the world, but at least in our own. And that's all that really mattered.