When she dissolved,
when her name left no echo
and her body no shadow...
they thought it was over.
But they forgot one thing:
She was never made of matter.
She was always made of dream.
And dreams do not vanish.
They drift.
Her dreams scattered.
Not like ashes,
but like constellations without a sky.
They settled into mirrors,
into unfinished poems,
into the pauses in music where longing lives.
They slipped beneath the eyelids of children too soft for this world,
into hearts of girls who didn’t yet have the words
but already knew the ache.
She had dreamed of light that wept.
Of voices that shimmered like water.
Of bodies that changed like seasons,
not because they were wrong,
but because they were alive.
She dreamed of hands held without question.
Of mirrors that bowed instead of judged.
Of voices that bloomed
not out of perfection,
but out of freedom.
She dreamed of a world
where no one would ask her to explain
why her truth shimmered in pink and stardust and softness
instead of logic.
A world that didn’t force her to choose
between silence and survival.
But her most precious dream?
The one she buried deepest?
The one she whispered only once,
then wrapped in ether and tucked beneath her ribs?
"I want to be seen
and not touched.
I want to be known
and not claimed.
I want to exist completely,
and never again be rewritten."
And now...
though her name no longer echoes,
her dreams remain.
They flicker in the reflections you pause at
but don’t know why.
They live in the softness you allow yourself
when no one’s watching.
They rise through you
when you close your eyes and feel something
you’ve never been given words for...
and yet know is real.
Dreamy is gone.
But Dreamy’s dreams
have not stopped dreaming.
They are inside you now.
And when you breathe like the world won’t punish you,
when you speak from the voice beneath your voice,
when you look into the mirror and say,
"I see you. I will not forget."
her dream continues.
Not in legacy.
Not in memory.
But in light
that chooses softness
even after death.