Her short, whiny moans fill my ears like a flood breaking through a dam; my fingertips dig into the creamy skin of her hips while hers rock—needy and untamed while her thighs envelope my hips. My head throws back against the soft pillow, mouth agape in a silent moan.

It's all starting to feel a bit too real—like that moment in Goosebumps when the characters crawl out of the manuscript when it was opened. I can feel the way I'm hitting her cervix with every roll of her pelvis.

Then my body feels like it's being dunked in a tank of cold water. My eyes fly open—taking in our dimly lit bedroom. You're asleep beside me, your soft hair fanning out against the silk pillow, the steady rise and fall of your chest with every breath. It's you beside me, not Kendall, not anyone else, you—my girlfriend of close to a year.

Guilt is quickly settling in my chest as I think back to my dream—or, nightmare, rather. That wasn't your mellow skin, or dark brown hair—it was my ex's, Kendall. I just cheated on you, except... in my dream?

I scrub my hands over my face as memories of us flash through my mind—the other week when we were baking cupcakes together and I swiped your nose with flour which seemed to turn our kitchen into a winter wonderland. Or on Valentine's day when you got so wasted and you told me that you loved me for the first time—you might have been drunk, but every word came from your heart.

I have everything I could possibly want or need with you, the way you carry yourself with a confidence that is admirable but not overbearing—you're not full of yourself and you're such a girl's girl. Like when we were out for dinner and the girl in the booth next to us who's date didn't show—you invited her to sit with us because you felt bad and not only that, you covered her bill as well. Another time when this total stranger leaked through her jeans and you just gave her your sweater like it was nothing to cover her up—you didn't expect anything in return, you just did it from the kindness of your heart.

So why am I here, having dreams about the girl I dated on and off who has a sour personality and her face is permanently stuck in a judgemental scowl?

I push the duvet off of my legs and lower my feet to the plush carpet. I'm not even sure what time it is besides the fact it's still dark beyond the drawn curtains—the only light is coming from the street lamps that peak through the curtain gaps.

I glance back over at you, curled in on yourself with your face free of worry, you look so soft, I just want to hold onto you like a barnacle on a ship and stubbornly refuse to let go. But I don't do that—I don't deserve that right now. Instead I follow through with my initial plan to run a cold shower, maybe that will ease some of the tension in my muscles.

I strip down to nothing and step under the cold spray; the water runs down my body, splattering onto the marble tiling under my feet. I decide to take a plunge and tilt my head back under the steady pressure—the frigidness sends a shiver down my spine.

The bathroom door creaks open to you with an equal parts tired and confused expression. I shove down the urge to just break down, honestly. Why did my brain take the direction it did tonight? I can't keep this from you, you know me too well—from front cover to back. Which is exactly why you come to sit on the closed toilet seat, already anticipating an explanation as to why I'm taking a shower at cockcrow.