Dear Dreambook,

I don’t want to get into detail. Too much has happened, okay? The kind of “too much” that turns a life into scattered receipts—proof it was real, even when it doesn’t feel real. If I soften it, I’ll start doubting myself again.

But this part keeps echoing. Like a bell I didn’t ask anyone to ring.

It wasn’t “last night.” It was a moment in time—when I was about 13 to 15—and it stamped itself into me like ink that never fully dries. Old enough to understand… still too young to hold it.

Someone in their physical body, someone real, looked at me and told me I was an angel sent from God. Not a metaphor. Not playful. Not gentle.

Not in a “you’re a princess” way. Not in a “you’re so magical” cliché way. Not in the normal fairytale compliment people toss out when they want a pretty moment. This wasn’t pretty. This was heavy.

No.

And I need to write the truth of it, Dreambook, because if I soften it, I’ll gaslight myself. Because my brain tries to make sharp things feel harmless.

They didn’t say it sweetly.
They didn’t say it like comfort.
They didn’t say it like admiration.
There was no warmth in it—only certainty.

They said it with the most dead-eyed, serious look I have ever seen. The kind of look that makes the air go quiet.

Like it wasn’t a compliment—like it was a statement. Like a verdict. Like something they believed so hard it made the air feel different. Like they weren’t even looking at me, but through me—like I was a message, not a person. Like I stopped being “me” and became a meaning.