The Girl Whose Dreams Are Basically Spoilers for Her Life

You’ll find me in the attic, wrapped in lavender and worn velvet, where dreams spill their secrets before they’re ready. I write them down, sketch what I can, but some fragments slip through like dust between my fingers. It’s a quiet kind of knowing—more listening than predicting. I don’t offer prophecies, just pieces of what might be. Some nights I dream of rain before it’s formed in the clouds. Others, I see the shape of your grief before you feel it.