You were in my dream last night. My brother had told my mom and I that my sister was talking to you, seated across from one another at a small dining table in what seemed to be a restaurant, on an outside patio. My brother, mother and I were seated in a dining booth. I can’t remember if my father were present.

I walked over to your table, and somehow got the impression my sister liked you more than I did. I approached you meekly, as we’ve been noncommunicative for far too long, and I worried you were still cross, and continue to urge me to forget you. But you were your true self–your best self–and just as kind to me as the moment we began texting. You were funny, smart, charming, appreciative, and sympathetic.

I may have mentioned the argument you initiated, the one I didn’t want to end until it had graduated into a compromising moral. You may have apologized, may have said it was a rough time at that moment, and you don’t hold it against me. I may have even seen you take out your phone, find my name in that messaging service, and remove the block on me. All or part of that could have happened, but I’m uncertain; you know how fuzzy dreams can get.

Then we walked along a field, and I think my family accompanied us, loosely. You began to look different. Your hair got longer, and you wore it in a bun at the back of your head. Then your nose got crooked. Then maybe your beard grew out, maybe your skin lightened or darkened–I don’t fully remember, it was a dream. I felt unsure if you were the same person, even though you were still handsome and had a similar personality. I was unsure if I could recognize you as the same individual. Then the dream ended.

I don’t know what this means, but it made me hopeful that you might be thinking of me, missing me, and forgiving me, maybe changing for the best. To certify this optimism, when I got dressed this morning, I put on the same shirt I had worn the last time we met in person.