The Man of My Dreams (And the Ghost of What Could’ve Been)

I met him. The man of my dreams. Following on from a previous story, where it ended on the crushing end of the archaeologist, I thought I might give you an update. One I didn’t expect to write.

The conversation restarted. Yes, I reached out. I’d gone to a library he once recommended, and I felt compelled to thank him. That small gesture cracked open the silence. We started talking again. I’ll admit, when he ended things before, I made a different offer. I wanted to meet him. Curiosity tugged at me. At the time, he wasn’t interested, said it wasn’t his thing. But something shifted. He was intrigued. Intrigued enough that we met.

Timing wasn’t perfect. I already had plans, a gig in London. I happened to mention I had a spare ticket. He happened to mention he loved gigs and hadn’t been to one in ages. So, naturally, he came with me.

And oh, I was right. He was everything. The man of my dreams. Maybe even the love of my life.

I was mesmerised. By his mind, so full, so sharp, so funny. By his quirks, his ease, his presence. And when we were close, it was like the air shifted. Every glance lingered; every touch felt like a secret shared. There was a rhythm between us, unspoken, magnetic. The kind of intimacy that doesn’t need words, only breath and instinct. It felt effortless. Natural. Sacred. The kind of connection that makes the rest of the world fall away.

It wasn’t smart, I know. I knew he wasn’t ready for anything serious. I knew how it would end. I knew I’d get hurt. But I had to meet him. I couldn’t not.

And yes, I’m hurt. But not by him. That word - “hurt” - can suggest someone else caused it. He didn’t. He was wonderful. Everything I’d ever dreamed of, and more. I wanted him. I still do. But I’m hurting all the same.

He left. Thought it through. Said, “For the moment, I’m okay with leaving things.”
And that was that.

I had to be okay with it. I am okay with it. But I’m also sad. Some might cling to the 'for the moment' as a sign of hope. But I’m not an optimist. Anyone who knows me could tell you that. My life is not a rom-com.

He’s not going to walk into my bookshop and say he’s just a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to love him. This isn’t Notting Hill. He’s not going to chase me through an airport like in Love Actually or show up with a boombox outside my window. There’s no grand gesture waiting in the wings.

And this isn’t a romantasy either. He’s not Rhysand, willing to shatter worlds to find me. He’s not Dorian, offering quiet loyalty and a library full of light. And he’s certainly not Mr. Darcy, swallowing his pride to say he was wrong about me, about everything.

If there’s one thing you can rely on men for, it’s to lie. Whether it’s cruel or kind, it’s still a lie. His lie was polite yet painful.

How do you meet the man of your dreams and let him go?
I’ve never been the type to cry over men. Never been the soppy sort. But that might be changing. I get it now, why women cry. I haven’t cried. But I could.
To have perfection brush against your fingertips, just a ghost of a grasp, and then vanish? That’s something to mourn, even if it never truly was.

Are my feelings a bit much? Probably.
But honestly, fuck it.
How often do you meet the man of your dreams?
Maybe he wasn’t.
But I guess I’ll never know.