Some dreams never truly die.
They are simply placed in the quietest corner of our hearts, dusted off once in a while, then left behind again because life feels too loud to think about them.
Once, those dreams felt close. We spoke about them with shining eyes. We believed that courage would be rewarded, that passion would be enough.
But over time, life teaches us a new word: realistic.
Being realistic means postponing. Choosing safety. Letting go of what we love in order to survive what we must.
So we store our dreams away. We tell ourselves, "Later, when things are stable." "Later, when I have time." "Later, when the situation allows."
But time keeps moving. And situations are never perfect.
And when we see others living the dreams we once held, a strange ache appears.
Not jealousy. Not bitterness.
But longing.
Longing for the version of ourselves who once believed without fear. Longing for a life that felt truly our own.
Those dreams do not demand to be fulfilled immediately. They only ask to be acknowledged—that they once mattered, and perhaps still do.