Sometimes, I dream of you. Not in a creepy way, where I imagine your nude delicate body and we do sinful things to one another as I run my fingers through your soft dirty blonde hair, nor do I dream of the blissful memories when the two of us laughing together as children or drunken blurry nights spent with our friends.

You're always just there in a familiar place, recreating a scene that never happened. Sometimes you're reading underneath a large oak tree, thumbing through the pages of a book as you furrowed your eyebrows in distress. Occasionally, you would allow a soft gasp to escape through your lips and the life in your eyes dims with sorrow. I don't know what you're reading because I'm too far away to know.

Sometimes you're sitting in the classroom, scribbling furiously into your school books. I'm usually sitting far away from you to see what you had drawn or written. I only get to hear the frustrated grumbles that make no sense, and the sound of the pen colliding with the page in a rough manner.

I seem to always be distance from you, with space and time driving us further apart. However, when I eventually become too distress at the image of you and have the courage to stand next to you; I find that everything was not as it seemed.

The pages in the novel you were reading were blank. The pages of the book I thought you were writing in were actually torn to shreds by the carelessness of your pen.

I never like my dreams with you in it.

Once in my dreams, you were on the roof of the school and you were screaming muffled words that I couldn't understand because I was too far below you to understand. I could faintly see the flushed redness on your face and the grief displaying on it.

I ran into the school and ran up the stairs until I finally stood on the flat roof of the school. But when you turned around, your lips were not murmuring and I realize that you never spoke. It was me who was mumbling the nonsense.

You chuckled softly with pools of sadness in your eyes, before breaking into nonsensical laughter and pointed at me like I was a fool.

Perhaps I am a fool, for I never could - and never will - understand a thing. Like how my youthful self never knew the consequence of words, the loathing I projected onto others, nor how I was kept from the truth by my own lies.

And I don't think someone like me could ever understand you. Not in the past, present or future.

Somehow, that makes me ashamed.