I dreamt of her again. Maybe its one of those Jung archetypes things. Someone whom i have barely exchanged a few words to in real life, occupies such a significant place in my mind. Maybe i see myself in her, maybe she is who i want to be. Maybe I’m in love with her.

The last time I dreamt of her she was home to a demon who wouldn’t let her die. We kept her locked up in a room upstairs. She would look down at us from the window sill, draped in her white gown, with that emptiness in her eyes. As if she was looking through us. Like a corpse that breathed and moved.

When she did die, it was chaos. Her body floated in mid air till every last breath of soul left her. Animals of all sorts, white tigers, exotic birds, sleek black dogs, came rushing in the house from every direction to mourn her. We had to close all doors.

This time round though, she was my friend. I spoke to her. She asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up. “A psychiatrist,” I told her. She listened and never interrupted. We talked some more. Then she took my hand and led me to her home. It was a small room with four hospital beds. A plastic doll with ragged clothes and an IV line hung on one side, slept in each of them. “I practise on them”, she had said.

We sat on one of the beds. She asked me why I dream of him so much. If I’m in love with him already. I wanted to tell her I’m in love with her, instead I kept silent. Watched her every move, memorized it. I told her its time for me to leave, that the uber fares would rise anytime soon.

When I came out I realized I was in my own living room. I was already home. She was in my home.

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