© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved

It started with a dream.

Soft pink light. Floating lanterns. A meadow that shimmered like it was made of memories. And her.

She never told me her name at first. She just giggled, eyes full of stars, and ran barefoot through fields I’d never seen, in a sky that didn’t exist. Her voice was the hush between heartbeats, and her laugh felt like moonlight dripping into a glass of forgotten warmth.

I thought it was just a dream.

Until I kept seeing her. Again. And again. Every time I closed my eyes, she was there. Waiting. Smiling. Dressed in ribbons and wonder.

And every time I woke up, I missed her like something sacred had been taken from me.

Jiwoo.

That’s what the wind finally whispered to me in one of those dreams. That was her name.

The Dream Weaver.

They say she lives in the space between sleep and sorrow. A gentle spirit who stitches illusions with her fingertips, cradling lost souls in make-believe until they remember how to feel again.

I didn’t realize how much I needed her until I met her.

I was drowning in the real world. Numb. Burnt out. Carrying wounds I couldn’t explain and a weight that got heavier every time I opened my eyes. I was alive, sure. But I wasn’t living.

And then came Jiwoo — soft, shy, magical Jiwoo — who never judged, never questioned, just existed with me. She’d build paper skies and cloud castles. Bake imaginary sweets that somehow tasted like childhood. Hold my hand in silence when my heart ached too loud for words.

“You don’t have to pretend here,” she’d whisper, brushing her dream-spun hair behind her ear. “You’re safe.”

And I believed her.

Because in her world, the stars knew my name. The shadows didn’t chase me. And I felt whole again — even if only in sleep.

But the closer we became, the more I wondered… was she just a dream?

Sometimes, when I looked deep into her eyes, I saw fear. Like she was the one afraid of vanishing. Like she knew her time with me was borrowed.

“You’re real to me,” I told her once. She smiled so softly, I thought the dream would crack. And whispered, “Then maybe that’s enough.”