silhouette of couple on terrace

In The Quiet Moments, I Daydream Of You

I have a minimal list of skills in this life, but among them is my ability to daydream extensively. I create stories and memories and ways I wish my life would unfold. Some of these dreams are big ones, where I slay monsters and conquer kingdoms. Some of them are small, quiet, and calming. One that I hold close is my perfect Sunday.

We’d wake up early, though I’d get up before you would. I’d let you sleep in a little longer, but only because you’d look so serene in the early sun that streams through my bedroom window. I’d head to the kitchen and fill up the kettle, mentally asking how I can make a coffee grinder quieter so as not to wake you. I’d come to the conclusion that the noise is a necessary evil, so I’d layer it with some music for good measure.

I’d begin to sing along, and that’s when you’d come into the kitchen. You like to hear me sing—that plus the smell of coffee might be enough to rouse you. We’d make breakfast and talk about our dreams and laugh. There would be lots of eye contact and the subtle brushing of hands while reaching for the spatula. We’d eat and clean up and settle into the living room.

I’d reheat my coffee (you’d long since finished yours) and we’d read or write or draw. I’d stare at you while you weren’t looking and I’d get that tingly feeling again, where my heart constricts and the heat rises to my cheeks and I’m not sure if I should kiss you or just appreciate the moment. I’d probably do both.

We’d spend the afternoon outside, as we both agree there’s no point in wasting sunshine. We’d either drive to the beach or the mountains (both are close) and stare at the beauty. We don’t have to do much to enjoy where we are. You’d look at me and brush my hair behind my ear, murmuring something or other about how happy you are that we finally made it here after so many years.

We’d get home and I’d cook you dinner. We’d eat and talk about our upcoming week, like any couple would, and then we’d clean up and head to bed. I’m confident you can ascertain what happens from there.

It’s such a simple dream, but it’s so far away from reality it almost feels complicated. Though it isn’t where we are now, and may never be what happens, I can live in this space for a bit. I can escape here when I need to—to my perfect Sunday.

About the author
Good person, messy eater, notorious plant killer. Follow Shelby on Instagram or read more articles from Shelby on Thought Catalog.

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