The Dream and the white ghost

—Saturday May 31, 2025— 

The signs finally calmed down.

I wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. It felt like something had gone silent, like a distant frequency I’d grown used to was no longer transmitting. But whatever they were, the signs, those strange little synchronicity in the ordinary—they stopped.

Something else picked up in my afternoon nap dream.

I was driving to a lesson, though I couldn’t remember what kind. It might have been a language class. Or maybe music. Either way, I was on the road, and traffic was heavy. Cars jammed around a narrow bridge gate, and people were honking constantly, impatient and restless. It felt like one of those half-awake stress dreams where the world swells with pressure and confusion.

As I crept toward a strange food shop at the corner, a guy on a motorcycle pulled up beside me. There were people walking all around, random pedestrians weaving between vehicles, the air filled with noise and motion.

He dismounted the bike and began speaking to me in a language that sounded like Chinese. I wasn’t completely sure. I responded instinctively, using what I thought was English, though even that felt uncertain in the dream.

He had long hair, light brown with streaks of blond, falling in loose waves nearly to his shoulders. It gave him an artistic look—like someone who might paint murals on abandoned buildings or play cello in the subway for no one in particular. He was handsome, unmistakably so. His face was sharp and self-assured, the kind of face that didn’t seek approval but always seemed to have it. He wasn’t wearing a mask or a helmet—just standing there, entirely at ease in the chaos. His eyes were a deep, clear blue, partially hidden beneath the shadow of his brows, their gaze steady and unreadable, like he knew something but wouldn’t say it unless you asked exactly the right question.

I remember thinking that he wasn’t really my type.

I noticed, all of a sudden, that I wasn’t in my car anymore. I had no idea when that had changed. I was just there beside him.

Then he looked at me and said in clear English, "How about we head to my place and hang out?"

I hesitated, then replied, "Well, I do have a lesson, and I’m already running late."

That’s when his attention shifted. He turned his head toward the food shop, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Damn it," he muttered, almost to himself. "Of course it’s a twin again."

I followed his gaze. There were two couples nearby. Each girl was wrapped in the arms of a tall, striking man. The men looked eerily alike—maybe not exactly twins, but certainly some strange mirror of each other. I murmured, almost without thinking,

"Ah… that’s what you mean."

But something else caught my eye. There was a fifth person standing with them, not part of either couple. Just standing there quietly. They weren’t being excluded or ignored. They simply existed alongside the others, observing, maybe waiting. There was something still and unreadable about their presence, like they weren’t quite meant to be there but weren’t quite out of place either.

I turned back to the guy on the motorcycle.

He said something again in Chinese, though this time his voice was lighter, more delicate—almost a higher register, like he had shifted into a different tone entirely. I still didn’t understand him. But I asked anyway, "How about you give me your number?"

He took my phone. As he tapped on the screen, I noticed something awkward flash up—something I’d forgotten to close. Maybe a dating app, or some other embarrassment. I reached to take it back, trying to swipe whatever it was away, but he held onto it firmly. He kept typing.

Then, without warning, he pulled me in and hugged me. And kissed me—hard, and sudden, like someone trying to prove something.

That’s when I woke up.

But this time, I didn’t feel sad. Just a little disoriented.

I reached out to my side, fumbling near the pillow, eyes half-open, trying to find my phone. When I finally turned it over, the screen lit up: 20%. The battery icon was red again.

A few notifications blinked at me—Snapchat, yellow background, the hollow white ghost in the center. I’ve hidden the Bitmoji. I hate that thing. Last year, I started attaching my expectations to it—every time it appeared, I’d wonder if it was him.

The one with the black beanie.

Was it him?

Oh. It wasn’t.

That question haunted me. Over and over.

It was stupid, but it gave me nightmares—this little cartoon ghost carrying so much weight.

Now, it’s just the icon.

Plain.

Neutral.

No face, no emotion, no expectation. Just a ghost again.

I saw the names pop up as I expanded the message list.

Collin.

Jonathan.

Michael.

Chris.

I will check later.

I haven’t needed to charge my phone as often lately.

No one thinks of me anyway—so why bother?

I set the phone back down without opening the messages, let my arm fall to the side, and slammed my head back into the pillow.

I sighed—loud, just to feel something move.