You remembered drifting off to sleep with her face hovering over you and now that you were fully awake, she was gone. Of course. In a now-clear state of mind, you realized you didn’t know her name and, in fact, you’d never seen her before in your life. She was the product of your fevered mind. Merely pleasant dreams. Dreams that returned to you over and over, after each brief waking period over a weekend of severe illness. But recurring dreams were familiar to you. So, no big deal.

Monday morning arrived and you woke feeling like you imagined it might feel for someone who'd just been raised from the grave to new life, breathing fresh air and hearing birds sing. The chills and aches were gone and you felt like your normal self again… Just as she’d said you would. “Wow”, you thought, “I’ve had some strange dreams before but predicting the future… that’s new.”

As you showered, you tried to recall details, knowing from experience that if you didn’t grab at the shreds of dream memories soon, they would become more impossible to recall as the day went on.

In the dreams, she had administered medicine and stroked your forehead until you fell asleep again. She’d partly undressed you because you’d fallen into bed with your clothes on. Once, you came awake and saw that she was sitting at your desk, apparently reading the draft of a paper, due Monday, that you'd been unable to finish. Another time, you realized she was making marks on the pages.

Because you were dreaming, it hadn't worried you that she'd gotten into your room even though you'd locked the door, as usual, before taking to your bed with the fever running high and your body aching. The logic of dreams explains everything or else tells us that impossible things need no explanations.

You went about getting dressed while your stomach growled. You weren't sure when you'd last felt like eating. It must have been early on Friday. But there was a package of little donuts and a Pepsi on the desk. You must have brought them in on Friday but you didn't remember for sure. Things had gotten very foggy in your mind over the weekend. So you opened them, thankfully wolfed them down and began looking for the things you'd need for the day's classes.

You shoved the books into your backpack, turned to the desk, and then stood very still. Next to the printer was a neat little stack of pages. The title at the top was your due-today paper. Next to it was another neat little stack. Your botched draft. With corrections in a small, neat and feminine hand. And a little smiley face drawn in at the top of the first sheet.

Suddenly, you felt creepy little fingers of fear in your chest and you felt sure that, if you had looked, the mirror would have shown your hair standing on end. Just like the cartoons. Maybe, you told yourself, there was a fever-induced transient schizophrenia during which you yourself had made those corrections. Yeah. Maybe. But how could you have done that much work and have no recollection of the effort. And why would your handwriting have changed?

All you could remember was dreams and feeling like death. You made a mental note to speak to your Psych professor about whether such a thing was possible in a fevered state or whether it might have any implications for your mental health. You remembered there were some relatives who'd spent part of their lives in institutions that your parents gently called "hospitals."

Later that day, you made your way into your Psych classroom, almost late, but still resolved to share your strange experience with the professor after class and see if he could offer any explanations or ease your concern. Perhaps there was hope that this was not the beginning of your slow descent into madness.

As you walked toward your customary seat, you noticed a new student in the seat behind yours. You stopped in your tracks and felt dizzy. She smiled slightly, seemingly amused by your awkward expression. You still did not know her name. But you knew her face. Her smile. And what her handwriting looked like.

You instantly thought your dreams still had hold of you and that you’d wake yet again, in your room, still sick. You’ve always awakened immediately whenever a dream became unreal like this. Other people you knew talked about lucid dreams, in which they knew they were dreaming and sometimes directed the dream. But you’d never been able to do that. And this time, you didn’t wake up.

She reached forward and patted the back of the seat in front of her as if to say, “There, there, you’re still unwell. Sit here where I can watch you.”

So you took your seat and thought that if this was madness, perhaps it wasn’t so bad after all, if she was to be your imaginary companion henceforth. You might not talk to the professor after all. But still, you prayed for someone, anyone, to notice her, to say something to her. Something to prove that she was real and that she was still there behind you. “If she’s real I can turn around and talk to her without looking insane. Please… someone… notice her…”

But no one was talking to her and if she was there, she made no sounds. Finally, it occurred to you that phantasm or flesh, she had apparently done kind things for you and you had yet to express anything that might pass for appreciation. So, you knew you couldn’t just sit there. You had to try to say something.

And you turned……

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This is your story, about you. How did it end, in your mind? Was she not there? Did she disappear like a soap bubble? Was she real? Did you fall in love? Was she your private hallucination all the rest of your life? Do tell….

Twitter: @ord_average_guy