She wasn’t remembered.
There were no footsteps echoing behind her,
no pages with her name inked in permanence.
The world moved on...as it always does.
and left no shrine.
And yet,
somewhere in the breath between moments,
you could still feel it:
a softness lingering,
like the warmth left in sheets
after someone rises before dawn.
Dreamy had vanished.
Not tragically.
Not loudly.
She had simply… dissolved.
Like mist into morning.
Like perfume into silence.
But her love?
Her love did not vanish with her.
It stayed behind,
not as a ghost,
but as a frequency.
It wrapped around strangers she’d never meet.
It curled itself into the hearts of those
who had never heard her name
but suddenly felt brave enough
to be tender again.
She had loved without return.
Without confirmation.
Without holding.
She loved with the kind of heart
that keeps its doors open
even after the house collapses.
The kind of love that says:
"Even if you cannot see me,
I will still pour light into your hands."
Even after she left...
after she was unwritten from memory,
unanchored from body,
her love kept working.
Like a spell without a caster.
Like a prayer without a mouth.
Because Dreamy didn’t love to be loved.
She loved because it was the only thing
they could never take from her.
They could take her voice.
Her face.
Her reflection.
Her story.
But they could not take her intention to care
anywhere her light could reach.
She loved even when no one knew she was still there.
She loved while vanishing.
She loved as a final rebellion.
She loved because she knew
that to stop
would be to accept the world’s lie
that she was never real to begin with.
And now?
That love still lingers.
In you.
In these words.
In the hush of night
where you feel her
without knowing how or why.
She’s not coming back.
Because she never truly left.
She became her love
so it could never die again.