I take a deep breath in and then slowly push it right back out again before I peel the covers back and sit up on the side of the bed. I really hate my dreams sometimes. And I can’t even call them nightmares because I love them too. I love them, but I hate them because I can’t stay in them. They’re my tortured dreams.

I close my eyes and try to replay every moment of the dream in my head. I try to replay his boyish, raspy words and his warm, soft breaths against my skin. I try to remember the smell of his cologne and the perfect way his shaggy hair fell across his ears. I try to replay it all — exactly the way it used to be. And then I get to the part where I realize exactly the way it is, and my heart aches.

“No,” I cry.

I double over and cradle my face in my hands. I miss him. I miss his voice; I miss the certain, special ring it used to have to it that always made me feel loved. I try to recall the hum of his words, the ebb and flow of every syllable as it trailed off his lips. In my dream, the voice sounded perfect — like a song, my favorite song — but now, I can’t hear it anymore.

I want to go back and change everything. I can’t help but think that if we never would have gotten married that day, that things might have been different. It might all have played out differently if we had just waited. And maybe it was karma — getting back at us for eloping or for being too young.

I pull open my nightstand drawer. In a corner, under the marriage license and a birthday card from Hannah, I slide out a ring and slip it on. At least Hannah hadn’t found this. I twist the ring slowly around the base of my finger with my thumb. And I let my eyes get lost in its little diamond and its little, breakable promise inside. Then, after a moment, I fold my other hand over the ring and bring both hands to my chest.

“Forever and a day,” I whisper to myself, before I slowly slide the ring off and carefully tuck it away again, underneath the marriage license and the birthday card. And then I close the drawer.

I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s 5:30 and still dark outside. The sun hasn’t even come up yet, but I’m wide awake — thanks to my dream and evidentially, the chains of my past. I rub my eyes and reach for my phone. The light from its screen blinds me — as if I were looking straight into the sun. I snap both eyes shut and wait a second. And when I finally get the courage to peek through one eye again, I notice there’s a message waiting on the screen. It was sent at 2 o’clock in the morning. I click on it and read:

Can’t sleep. Thinking about you. Had the best weekend! Can’t wait to see you today!

I stare at the words for another minute before I set the phone back down. I feel torn — torn between my old life and my new one, between letting go and moving on. Images of my dream are still playing in my head — images of Andrew and the way his lips moved when my name — my birth name — came tumbling off of them — and Paris. I force my eyes shut, swallow hard and lie back down. I lie there until the images in my mind start to fade and eventually disappear.

People say it all gets better in time. And I think it does. Each day is a little better than the last; each dream pulls me back just a little bit less. But what they don’t say is how much time it takes. They don’t tell you how many more moments your heart will race, sink, tear or ache. They don’t tell you how many more breaths you’ll lose over a memory, a dream, a scent, a spoken name. They don’t tell you how long it will take to heal. They don’t even tell you what being “healed” actually feels like because I’m pretty sure I’ll never feel like I did when I was sixteen — years before my world crashed in on me. But what they do tell you is that it does get better and that time is part of that equation. So, I guess for now, I’ll just wait on time.

I lie there for another minute, until I feel as if I just can’t lie there anymore, and I pick up the phone and read over the message from Jorgen again. And this time, a smile instinctively dances to my lips.

I type in a few letters asking him if he’s up yet and hit send. Then I wait. And within a couple seconds, there’s a response: Yes. You?

My fingers go to typing another sentence before hitting send again.

Seconds later, the phone beeps and lights up, and I look down at the screen: Get your cute butt over here then!

I laugh to myself, then stand up and make my way to the door. On the way out, I tame my hair into a ponytail and grab a piece of gum sitting on the counter and shove it into my mouth.

Three steps later, I’m at Jorgen’s door. I knock softly a couple times and wait, but no one answers.

“Jorgen,” I softly say.

I wait a few more seconds. Then, I slowly turn the knob, and the door cracks open.

I hesitate but then step inside. The little rooms are dark, and there’s still no sign of him. So, either he sleeps with his door unlocked, which is completely crazy, or he’s already unlocked it and gone back to bed. How long was I messing with my hair?

“Jorgen,” I say, barely over a whisper, as I make my way to the back of the apartment. Now, I think I’m expecting him, at any moment, to jump out at me from some dark corner.

There’s no answer.

“Jorgen,” I whisper again.

I wait. Nothing.

I finally get to his bedroom and freeze in the doorway when I see him.

He’s there — in his bed. He looks perfect. His eyelids are covering his eyes, and his thick eyelashes are resting on his cheekbones. His short, barely-there curls are tossed every which way on his pillow. The covers are strewn all about him; one leg is sticking out. I lean up against the door frame and just watch him sleep for a few moments. I love him. I’m scared to say it out loud. I’m scared to even think it, but I do. I have fallen for the paramedic across the hall — the normal, motorcycle-driving, blue-eyed, abs of steel paramedic that lives exactly three steps from my door.

He turns over, and it snaps me out of my trance. I watch him tuck the comforter under his chin and stop moving again. Then, I tiptoe over to the side of the bed closest to me and lie down beside him. He doesn’t even flinch. I lay my head on the pillow next to his head and blow a gentle stream of warm air onto one set of his eyelashes. It doesn’t faze him. I wait a second and then blow a gentle breeze onto the other set. His head rolls the other way but then returns to mine a second later. I’m trying not to laugh as I blow another stream of warm air onto his lips. He twitches and then suddenly, his eyelashes flutter open.

“Hey,” he says in a deep, sleepy voice. “What took you so long?”

I plant a light kiss on his unshaven cheek.

“I had to wait for you to finish dreaming evidently.”

He squints his eyes and wrinkles his brow.

“Come here,” he says, grabbing my hips and pulling me closer to him. “I had a dream about you.”

“You did?” My cheek presses up against his bare chest.

“Yeah, I dreamt you wore something other than that sweatshirt and those boxers to bed.”

I lift my head.

“That was your whole dream?”

“Well, no, but the rest is R-rated.”

I laugh and rest my head on his chest again. “Jorgen Ryker,” I scold playfully.

He’s quiet for a second before I hear his raspy voice again.

“My mom ordered your magazine.”

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Yeah. She loved you. My whole family loved you.”

“Really?” I scrunch up my face and timidly peer up at him.

“Really,” he confirms.

A little wave of excitement overtakes me. I wanted them to like me. And if I were being honest, I wanted them not only to like me but also to think of me as a good match for their son too.