Tucker’s spent the past forty-five minutes trying not to think about his dream last night. You wearing a beautiful white dress that you both picked out together, him in some fancy designer suit you complimented, as you both promised to spend the rest of your lives together. He never wanted to wake up ever again, just live in that dream reality where you shared matching rings forever.

You’re just sitting there on your bed, hair pulled down from whatever loose hairstyle it was in previously — god, it would be so easy to lean closer and run his hands through it — rambling on about your day, and some encounter you had at a coffee shop earlier, but all he can do is stare at you and fantasize about having a future with you.

You’d buy a huge place together, the type of places movie stars buy — or maybe you’d move into some cramped little New York apartment, borrowing money from friends and wasting it on things you don’t need. He doesn’t really care where he ends up. As long as it’s with you, he’ll go happily.

He could honestly sit here for hours with you, letting you go on and on about your life as he pretends everything is perfect, exactly how he imagines it, that every little glance you throw his way means more than it actually does.

Even back in highschool, when you two first met, he always thought you’d end up together. From the moment you turned back in your chair to ask him for a pen, to the times you’d skip college classes to go smoke in his car, he’s always known you’d be his eventually. He’s just kept his mouth shut all these years, kept it hidden in the background, just an underlying feeling he’s learned to suppress. But he’s made up his mind. He’ll tell you. As soon as he finds the opportunity to spill his guts about how in love with you he’s been since forever.

There’s never really been a right time for him. There was always something screwing up the timing — you getting a new boyfriend, a date with some girl he was never interested in to begin with — and he feels like he’s constantly been waiting for the right chance, but never found it.

He wonders if maybe you do the same thing — secretly fantasize about him when he’s not there. He can’t help but hope he’s there in your dreams, that you see him when you go to sleep each night, that you look for him in every crowd, like he does for you. Maybe you see that future he always does. Maybe he doesn’t need to confess at all, because you already know.

Fuck it.

“Had a dream we got married,” he mumbles suddenly, and it’s unclear whether he intended you to hear it or not. Actually, you’re not even sure if he meant to say it out loud. His voice trails off slightly towards the end, like he sort of lost confidence in what he was saying halfway through. There’s a small smile on his face, but it’s less convincing than it was a few minutes ago, when he just was listening to you talk.

The record player in the corner clicks to a stop as the album comes to an end, and now it’s only you, him, and the words he just murmured under his breath.