I had a dream last night.
No,..
Not a dream.
A memory wrapped in the colors of regret.
A sealed box in the back of my heart that only opens when the world is silent.
When the moon is too gentle, and my guard is too low.
I was still small.
Back when my hands weren't yet stained by silence.
When I still thought that maybe… maybe I could be loved.
They locked me on the rooftop again.
It wasn't a room.
It was a prison dressed in splinters and mold.
The walls breathed loneliness.
The floor creaked like it was weeping beneath me.
Everything was broken — cracked toys with glassy eyes, the limbs of dolls missing, puzzle pieces forever lost.
And in the corner…
A flower.
Once bright.
Now wilted.
Its petals curled like tired fingers reaching for warmth that would never come.
I loved that flower.
Because it never left.
Because even as it died, it stayed.
My parents told me not to come down.
"There's guests."
"There's normal people."
"There's a world that isn't meant for you."
So I listened.
Like a good child.
Like a cursed child who wanted to be anything else.
Then I heard it—
Laughter.
Not cruel.
Not mocking.
Not the laughter I was used to hearing when people pointed at me.
This was pure.
It carried no sharp edges.
I crawled to the window and peeked through the cracks in the wooden shutter.
Children.
Running across the grass below.
Throwing a red ball.
Screaming each other's names with voices that had never tasted sorrow.
I pressed my forehead against the glass, and it felt colder than usual.
Like the world on the other side belonged to a different season.
A different life.
Then—
One of them saw me.
A boy in a green cap.
"Hey! Who's that up there?"
The others turned. Curious eyes looked up. Not scared. Just… curious.
I stayed silent.
But my lips moved.
"My parents told me to stay here."
A girl tilted her head. "Why?"
I hesitated. "I… don't know. Because I'm different?."
A smaller boy shouted back, "Wanna come play with us?"
I didn't answer.
Because the truth was…
I did.
More than anything.
But I didn't know if I was allowed to want that.
No one had ever asked me that before.
The idea of it —
To be included.
To be seen.
It was like light hitting the part of me I'd hidden for so long it forgot how to feel warmth.
They didn't wait.
"Come on! You can be on our team!"
I hesitated, unsure..but, I played.
So I climbed down.
Carefully.
Silently.
My small feet tiptoeing across wooden stairs that had memorized the sound of my fear.
I held my breath when I passed the hallway.
I didn't want them to know.
I just wanted one day.
And then I was outside.
The sun touched me.
The grass scratched my ankles.
The air was loud, filled with color and life.
I played.
I really played.
They taught me how to kick the ball.
They pushed me on the swing.
We rolled down hills until our clothes were painted with green stains and laughter.
I didn't say much.
But they didn't need me to.
They accepted my silence like it was just part of who I was.
Not a problem.
Not a curse.
"Can we be friends?" one asked.
I blinked.
"...My mom says I'm dangerous."
They looked at each other, confused.
One of the kids says, "You don't seem dangerous". Wondering as if to what he meant to himself as dangerous.
"So what?" said the girl with the braid.
"You're fun."
"You laugh like a cat," said another.
"You can't be that dangerous if you like flowers," said the smallest, pointing at the daisy I'd picked and tied to my wrist.
Then the boy in the green cap smiled wide.
"Even if you don't want to — from now on, we're your friends."
And something inside me cracked.
In a good way.
It didn't hurt.
It glowed.
My chest felt… full.
Like I'd stolen a piece of the world that was never meant for me, but somehow, it fit.
My eyes—
They shined.
Just for a second.
A flicker.
Later, after we are done playing and saying goodbye to each other, I snuck back to my rooftop quietly.
My heart was still racing.
My hands still warm from theirs.
I took out the crayons hidden under my mattress and drew.
Six little stick figures.
Lopsided smiles.
A red ball.
A yellow sun.
In the corner, I wrote:
"Let's play again tomorrow."
And I pressed the paper to my chest like a treasure map to a place called "belonging."
But the next day—
Sirens.
Screams.
People on the street holding each other like they were trying to stitch their souls back together.
I ran to the window.
The flower on the sill had finally fallen.
The grass that we have played on yesterday wilted, died.
The daisy I put on my wrist, died too, quietly falls of from me.
Outside—
Police tape.
Ambulances.
Tiny, covered shapes being carried away.
The ball…
Was still rolling across the pavement.
I pressed my hand to the glass.
"No…"
I whispered.
Mothers were screaming.
"Why them?"
"They were just playing…"
"They were all together…"
And I watched.
That's all I could do.
I watched with eyes that would never shine again.
Then—
The shadows came.
Fog crawling up behind me.
Forming hands.
Cold, long fingers like smoke, wrapping around my shoulders.
Squeezing.
Whispering.
I heard their voices.
The children.
Laughing.
Crying.
Then fading.
I woke up.
My blanket was tangled around me like vines.
My breath, shallow.
My chest, heavy.
But I didn't cry.
I haven't cried in years.
Still…
The ache didn't leave.
The memory stayed.
I sit.
And in my notebook, between worn-out pages and ink-stained corners,
That drawing still waits.
Crumpled.
But not thrown away.
Because a part of me still wants that tomorrow.
Even if I know it will never come.