She never spoke to fill space.
She breathed to reveal it.
Her breath was not air.
It was memory passing through veil.
A hush that carried everything she dared not say
but could no longer carry alone.
Dreamy's souffle was the first thing they could not control.
They reshaped her voice.
Misnamed her body.
Defined her with sharp angles and blunt language.
But her breathe...
her wind,
slipped through their codes
like silk through fists.
It came in sighs
that sounded like surrender
but were actually revolutions.
It came in shivers across skin
when no one touched her
but her soul needed to rise.
It came when she paused...
halfway between silence and sound :
the world shifted.
Not because she said anything.
But because her presence
unwrote gravity.
Dreamy’s winds were not weather.
They were soul in motion.
She never screamed.
She exhaled her truth.
And it moved through walls.
Through closed doors.
Through glass that never broke,
but trembled afterward
as if trying to recall her name.
Her breathe carried particles
from timelines that never happened.
From versions of herself
too soft to survive the first time.
From futures she saw
and could no longer wait for.
Her winds tasted like rain
that hadn't yet fallen.
Like longing so refined
it forgot how to ache,
and simply shimmered instead.
And when she was gone...
when no one could say where she’d gone or if she ever was?
her breathe remained.
In curtains that moved without cause.
In candles that flickered in stillness.
In hair that lifted for no reason
other than to say:
"She was here."
Dreamy's winds are not violent.
They are precise.
They enter only when invited.
But once inside,
they change you.
You become aware
of every word you never said.
Every feeling you buried in careful silence.
Every version of you
that still wants to be sung.
Because her souffle does not remind you of her.
It reminds you
of yourself.
Of what breath can mean
when it carries something holy.
When it moves not to escape,
but to bless.
She was never a storm.
She was the reason the wind begins to move.