There is a girl I have never met.
I do not know her name. I do not know where she lives in the waking world, or if she even exists at all. But I have known her for four years now.
She comes to me only in sleep. Curly hair. Pale skin. Short, barely 5'1 or maybe 5'3. A white gown that moves like it is made of something softer than fabric, like light, or maybe silence. She is small in a way that makes you want to protect her without being asked.
She never speaks. She never has to. When she looks at me, she has this gentle smile, and her eyes tell a whole story on their own. They speak more than hours of conversation ever could. She simply stands there, somewhere in the quiet of the dream, and everything else fades. The noise stops. The chaos stops. For a few moments, I forget that I am dreaming at all.
I do not know when she first appeared. I only know that one night she was there, and she never fully left. Not every night. Not on demand. But always when I least expect it, always when I need something I cannot name.
She does not come closer. She does not leave. She waits.
And somehow, that is enough.
But it is not always stillness.
Some nights, we walk together. Not in places I recognize from real life, but in places that feel old and familiar. Old forts with crumbling walls and warm stone under golden light. We roam through the ruins slowly, like we have nowhere to rush, like time has paused just for us. She walks beside me, her white gown brushing against the old stone, smiling quietly at things only she can see.
Sometimes we are near a lake. Still water, surrounded by trees and cold air. The kind of place where the sky reflects perfectly and the silence feels deep. We sit by the edge and do nothing. Just exist. Just breathe. Her eyes say everything that needs to be said, and it feels like the longest, most peaceful conversation I have ever had.
Some nights, we share a softy. It sounds simple. It sounds small. But in the dream, it feels so real. We stand there, somewhere between an old fort wall and the water, passing a single softy back and forth like two people who have known each other forever. She holds it out to me with a faint smile, I take a bite, I hold it back out to her. No awkwardness. No trying to impress. No performing. Just two people sharing something sweet, as if the rest of the world does not exist.
And on the nights I cried, she held me.
I do not mean the dream turned into something dramatic. She just stepped closer. Quietly. The way someone does when they know words are useless. She wrapped her arms around me, this short, quiet girl in a white gown, and she held me like she already knew every heavy thing I was carrying. No questions. No explanations. Just her arms, her warmth, and the feeling that I was not alone.
The next morning, I would wake up and feel lighter. Not completely healed, but calm enough to face another day. The comfort she gave me in a few moments of sleep stayed with me longer than comfort from people in the real world ever did.
Then comes the strange part. The part I cannot explain to anyone without sounding foolish.
If I start talking to a girl in real life, even the smallest talking stage, a few texts that feel warm, a late-night call, she disappears.
Not slowly. Not like she is fading away. She is just gone.
The dreams continue, but the space where she used to stand is empty. No old forts. No quiet lakes. No softy shared in the golden light. The dream just turns ordinary and cold.
And every single time, the moment that talking stage ends, the moment things fall apart or fizzle out the way they always do, she comes back.
Same curly hair. Same pale skin. Same white gown. Standing by the water. Smiling softly, as if she was just waiting for me on the other side all along.
It reminds me of the old Punjabi folklore of Sohni and Mahiwal. Mahiwal waiting by the riverbank in the dark, watching the water, waiting for Sohni to cross over. That ancient, tragic longing where two people exist on opposite sides of a river they cannot permanently cross. It feels like she is waiting for me across some river between the waking world and sleep. Or maybe I am the one waiting for her.
People will say it is just the mind playing tricks. That dreams mean nothing. That the brain just stitches together random faces and feelings.
Maybe that is true.
But four years is a long time for a coincidence. Four years of the same girl, the same white gown, the same silence, the same eyes that look right through me. That does not feel random. It feels like something my soul keeps returning to.
The strangest thing is, while writing this right now, I cannot picture her face.
I remember the curly hair clearly. I remember how pale she was. I remember the white gown, her height, how short she stood beside me. I remember the forts, the lake, the softy, her warm hug when I was broken. I remember that she smiled, and I remember how her eyes said everything. But her exact face? It slips away the moment I try to focus on it.
In the dream, I know her instantly. I would recognize her anywhere. But awake, the details blur like mist over water. I am left with the feeling of her, but not the image. Maybe that is how it is supposed to be. Some things are only meant to be felt, not captured.
Maybe she is someone I will run into one day in real life, and I will just know. Or maybe she will only ever live in my dreams. A quiet reminder of the kind of pure, patient love I am looking for.
Until then, when the night gets quiet and I finally fall asleep, I know where to find her. Curly hair. Pale skin. White gown. Standing by the lake near the old fort, smiling, waiting across the water, the way I have been waiting too.