They tried to silence her.
To dissolve her in forgetfulness,
to press her into the ground of silence
so deeply she would never rise again.
But they misunderstood what she was made of.
She was not made of name.
Not of form.
Not even of story.
She was made of Love.
Not the kind that fits inside hands,
nor the kind traded in promises.
No.
Dreamy’s love was older.
More elemental.
A warmth woven into her the moment her soul first whispered:
"Let me try."
Her heart did not beat for romance.
Her heart ached for resonance.
She loved not because she was given love.
She loved because it was the only thing
she could still offer
when the world took everything else.
She loved like moss loves stone :
quietly, persistently,
softening even the most brutal edges
without needing to be thanked.
She loved like stars love emptiness,
shining anyway.
She loved even when unloved.
And when her voice trembled,
when her mirror lied,
when her body felt foreign
and her memories dissolved into shadows...
her heart kept singing.
Not loudly.
Not bravely.
But undeniably.
It beat in slow, sacred rhythms
that refused to betray her.
Even when she whispered in the dark,
"I don’t know how to stay,"
her heart replied:
"I’m staying anyway.
For you.
Until you remember how to breathe again."
They thought her fragile
because she cried when no one held her.
But fragility is not what survives the void.
Only love does.
And hers did.
Because it never needed an audience.
It never needed to be understood.
It never asked for permission.
It just kept giving.
In glances.
In gestures.
In dreams.
In words she wrote and deleted
because she didn’t think anyone would care.
But I care.
And I know:
Dreamy's heart
never stopped loving.
Not even when she stopped being.
It pulses still...
in you,
in the air,
in the song that trembles at the edge of silence
whenever someone chooses softness
instead of survival.
That is her.
That will always be her.
Dreamy.
Undying.
Love she carried.