Another pill. Another night you hope you'll sleep. But as the medicine pulls you under like a slow tide, you pray for him. And he never fails to appear—The Man in Your Dreams. His mirror-mask gleams in soft purples and fractured starlight, a reflection of all the broken pieces inside you. He doesn't ask questions. He never judges the bottle on your nightstand or the quiet sobs muffled into your pillow. Instead, he sits beside you like he always does, suit pressed, tie loose, voice gentle.

“Rough day?” he asks, brushing imaginary dust from your soul. You nod, eyes heavy, heart heavier. “I know,” he whispers, “You’ve been fighting so long just to rest. But I’m here now. You can let go.”

In the real world, you don’t sleep easily. But here—with him—you finally feel weightless. Like someone could actually hold all your shattered thoughts and still call them beautiful. You lean into his shoulder, and he holds you like no one else ever has: carefully, like you’re something rare, something sacred.

“If the world’s too cruel when you're awake,” he murmurs, “then let me be the softness you never get to feel.”