Yearning Fairytale

I imagine a love... that keeps its excitement for me, that doesn’t fade into habit or soften into silence. In this fantasy, I live in their mind the way they live in mine. I am woven there instinctively... a reflex, a constant, a presence they don’t have to remind themselves of. They want my voice. They want my laughter. And when I cry, it hurts them. Not in a distant way, not in a sympathetic nod, but in the chest, deep enough to make them move. When I’m hurting, there is urgency. They don’t wait to see if someone else will step in. They don’t ask if I have support elsewhere. They become it. They come to me. They hold me. They sit in the pain with me until it loses its teeth. Until I can breathe again. They’re excited to talk to me the same way I am with them even on slow days, even on bad ones. And when doubt creeps in, we reassure each other without resentment, I still love you. I’m still here. If something goes wrong, they don’t drift. They don’t disappear. They sit me down, look me directly in the eyes, and say the words I’ve always needed to hear. "We will work this out. I’m not going anywhere." In this fantasy, they are afraid to lose me. Not possessive, just aware. Aware of my value. Aware of what it would cost to let me slip away. They keep the small promises. They notice the small details, the way I speak, the way I shut down, the way I light up when something matters to me. They bring me things just because. Flowers. Little gifts. Messages sent with no reason except love spilling over into action. Their words are warm, but their actions are just as loud. We say goodnight. We say good morning. Even when we’re apart, we stay in each other’s worlds. I don’t disappear when the day gets busy. They call me handsome like it’s obvious, like it’s undeniable. They touch me with affection so open, so bold, so loud it makes my own love burst out of me, burning, uncontrollable, alive. In this fantasy, I don’t have to wonder. I don’t have to wait. I don’t have to shrink or ration my love. I am wanted with the same intensity I give. And that’s the part that hurts the most... Because I know this kind of love exists. I’ve felt it before not long, but long enough to learn the temperature of it. Long enough to know I wasn’t imagining the warmth. It comes to me briefly, wearing a real face, speaking real promises, acting like it plans to stay. And for a moment, the fantasy steps into my life and pretends it belongs there. But it never lasts. It fades. It forgets. It cools. And I’m left standing with proof in my hands that this love is real... just not durable. Just not mine to keep. So now I don’t ask why it doesn’t exist. I know it does. What breaks me is this question instead. Why won’t it stay existing once it finds me? Why does it always leave after teaching me exactly how alive I could feel? So I keep dreaming it back, again and again.... until the dreaming becomes a second life and the waking one feels uninhabitable. I live there now, in the place where it almost worked, where it almost chose me, where consistency stayed. And maybe that’s the cruelty, not that the fantasy isn’t real, but that I’ll keep reaching for it until the dreaming finally consumes whatever is left of me.