I Met the Love of My Life in a Dream Café and Woke Up Strapped to a Gurney

When Penelope's boring life gave way to vibrant dreamscapes and a charming stranger, she found herself caught between two realities. As her waking hours faded and her fantastical world brightened, she discovered that the most perfect love almost killed her.

The quiet of my apartment always hit the hardest on weekday evenings. Not the peaceful kind of quiet that wraps around you like a soft blanket, but the hollow kind that echoes with all the conversations you're not having.

I stood in the hallway outside my door, fishing for keys in my purse. When I finally unlocked the door, the sound bounced off the walls of the empty corridor, a lonely percussion that followed me inside.

My apartment was just as I'd left it that morning. Small. Tidy. Quiet. The sort of place that could belong to anyone, really.

There were a few framed photos on the wall, my mother and me at my college graduation, and a group shot from the library staff Christmas party three years ago, but nothing that screamed, "Penelope lives here."

I tossed my keys onto the little table by the door and headed for the freezer. It was Tuesday, which meant frozen lasagna night. I stuck it in the microwave and watched it rotate slowly behind the glass door.

"Exciting life you lead, Penelope," I muttered to myself.

I ate at my kitchen table, staring blankly at an old sitcom rerun on my television. The canned laughter felt jarring in the stillness of my apartment. When I finished, I washed my plate, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed.

Another day done. Another day just like the rest, I thought as I closed my eyes, waiting for sleep to come.

***

Sunlight streamed through large windows, warming my face. The soft chatter of conversations and the gentle clinking of cups filled the air. I sat up straighter, blinking in the brightness.

This wasn't my bedroom. I was sitting at a small table in a café, surrounded by the buzz of morning patrons. "Café Lumière," read a painted sign above the counter.

Through the windows, I could see a bustling park that looked nothing like the ones in my hometown. Pigeons even gathered around an ornate fountain at its center.

"May I offer you a cappuccino? It is a beautiful morning, and you look like you could use a warm drink."

I looked up to find a man standing beside my table. He was tall, maybe 40, with kind eyes and the sort of smile that made you want to smile back. He held two cups, one extended toward me.

"I... yes. Thank you," I said, surprised by my own quick acceptance.

"I am Thierry," he said, sitting down across from me at the wrought-iron table. "And you are...?"

"Penelope."

"Penelope," he repeated, my name sounding different in his gentle French accent. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

We talked for what felt like hours, about books and art and places we'd been. I found myself laughing more than I had in years, opening up to this stranger in ways I never did at home.

"Would you like to walk with me to the market?" he asked after we'd emptied our cups. "The flower market is lovely this time of day."

I nodded, wondering briefly how I'd gotten there, but the thought slipped away as we stepped out into the sunshine.

The market was a riot of color and sound. Vendors called out their wares in French and English. Vibrant flowers spilled from buckets, their sweet scent mingling with the savory aroma of fresh bread and pastries.

"Try this," Thierry said, offering me a flaky pastry dusted with powdered sugar. Our fingers brushed as I took it, and I felt a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the sunshine.

We wandered through the stalls, stopping to admire handcrafted jewelry and sample cheeses. A street performer juggled oranges nearby while calling out jokes that made the gathering crowd laugh.

"You are beautiful when you smile," Thierry said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "You should do it more often."

I grinned even wider.

But before I could answer with a similar compliment, the colors of the market began to blur around the edges, the sounds growing distant.

"Thierry?" I reached for his hand, but it felt like moving through water.

"Do not worry," he said, his voice fading. "I will find you again."

***

The harsh buzz of my alarm jolted me awake. 6:30 a.m. Wednesday. The memory of the market lingered as I stared at the gray light filtering through my blinds. For a moment, I could still smell the flowers, feel the warmth of Thierry's hand in mine.

But that was ridiculous. It had been a dream. Just a dream.

I went through the motions of my morning routine. Shower. Coffee. Cereal. The whole time, my mind kept drifting back to the café, to Thierry's smile, to the way the sun had felt on my skin.

The library was quiet that day, even for a Wednesday. I shelved books mechanically, my body on autopilot while my mind wandered.

The brightly colored spines of children's books reminded me of the flowers at the market. A book on French cuisine made me think of the pastry Thierry had given me.

"Excuse me, miss? Can you help me find the large print section?"

I blinked, realizing I'd been standing in the same spot for several minutes.

"Of course," I told the elderly woman. "Right this way."

The rest of the day passed slowly. I answered questions, checked out books, and stared out the window at the parking lot, all the while thinking about a man I'd never met in real life.

That night, I skipped my usual TV show and went straight to bed.

***

Golden light bathed the rolling hills of a vast park. I found myself sitting on a checkered blanket beside a sparkling lake, the water reflecting the late afternoon sun like scattered diamonds.

"It's my favorite place in the world," Thierry said, following my gaze across the water. "Beautiful, is it not?"

"It's amazing," I said, turning to him. He looked just as I remembered—warm eyes, gentle smile, and a face that somehow felt as familiar as my own reflection despite having seen it only once before.

"I brought a picnic." He gestured to a wicker basket beside us. "I remembered you liked the cheese from the market."

He unpacked the basket, laying out bread, cheese, fruit, and a bottle of wine. We ate and talked as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon.

"Tell me, Penelope," he said, pouring me a glass of wine, "what are your dreams?"

I laughed. "Isn't this a dream?"

He smiled, but didn't answer. "Everyone has dreams. Things they wish for. Things they hope."

I lay back on the blanket, looking up at the clouds drifting lazily overhead, as I considered his question. "I don't know. To not be lonely, I guess. To feel like I matter to someone."

"You matter to me," he said simply, lying down beside me. "What are you afraid of?"

"Being forgotten," I answered without thinking. "Living my whole life without ever really being seen."

He turned on his side to face me, his gaze intent. "I see you, Penelope."

Those four words hit me with surprising force. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.

He reached out, his fingers brushing my cheek. "Do not cry. I will always see you."

The sun began to set, making everything even more beautiful, but soon the colors of the world around us deepened, then they began to fade.

***

I woke up Thursday morning with tears on my pillow and the echo of Thierry's voice in my head. I called in sick to work. I couldn't face the drab reality of the library, not after the park, not after Thierry.

I spent the day in a haze, moving between my bed and the couch, sleeping and waking, always eager to return to sleep, to return to him.

Thursday night, we explored an art museum filled with masterpieces that seemed to breathe life. Friday afternoon, we attended a concert in a cathedral, the music swelling around us like a physical presence. Friday night, we shared an intimate dinner in a tiny bistro, candlelight dancing across the table between us.

With each dream, my waking life grew more distant, the colors fading in comparison to the vibrant hues of my time with Thierry. My apartment fell into disarray.

Dishes piled up in the sink. Laundry overflowed from the hamper. I didn't care. I called in sick again on Friday, claiming a migraine, but spent the day drifting in and out of sleep, desperate to keep sleeping.

Days passed like that, and my dream life only got better.

***

Thierry and I stood on his condo's balcony overlooking the city at night. Lights twinkled below us like earthbound stars. The air was crisp and clear, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from potted plants that lined the balcony rail.

"Penelope," Thierry said, taking my hands in his. "These past days have been the happiest of my life."

"Mine too," I whispered, and I meant it. Despite the strangeness of our meetings, the way they came and went like the tide, I had never felt more alive, more myself, than I did with him.

He released my hands and reached into his pocket. Then, in one fluid motion, he was on one knee before me, holding up a simple silver ring that caught the starlight.

"I know this is fast," he said steadily, despite the vulnerability in his eyes. "But when you find the one who makes your soul sing, why wait? Penelope, will you marry me?"

Tears spilled down my cheeks as I nodded. He slipped the ring onto my finger, then stood and pulled me into his arms.

"Yes," I finally managed to say. "Yes, I will marry you."

I don't know how, but a second later, we were in a grand hall with bright lights illuminating the faces of countless guests. Music filled the air, and people were dancing.

I looked down to find myself in a flowing gown. Thierry stood before me in a tuxedo, handsome as ever, his eyes never leaving mine.

"May I have this dance, my love?" he asked, extending his hand.

I took it, feeling weightless as he led me onto the dance floor. We moved together as if we'd been dancing our whole lives.

The music began to fade, the hall growing dimmer around the edges. I knew what this meant by then.

I clung to Thierry, not wanting to let go, not wanting to wake up.

"Not yet," I pleaded, burying my face against his chest.

"Do not worry," he murmured against my hair. "I am always with you."

***

A pounding noise dragged me from sleep. I struggled to open my eyes, disoriented by the transition from the bright hall to my dark apartment.

The pounding came again, followed by a voice. "Penelope? Are you in there? It's Gia!"

I couldn't find the energy to answer. I just wanted to go back to sleep, back to Thierry.

I heard the sound of a key in the lock. Right. Gia had a spare key. I'd given it to her months ago, though I couldn't remember why now.

"Penelope?" Gia's voice was closer now, tinged with worry. "Oh my God."

I felt her hand on my forehead, cool against my skin.

"You're burning up," she said. "When's the last time you ate something? Or drank water?"

I tried to remember, but everything before the dreams was hazy. "Don't know," I mumbled. "Doesn't matter."

"I'm calling your mom," Gia said, her phone already in hand.

"No," I protested weakly. "Just let me sleep."

But she was already dialing, already walking into the kitchen, her voice fading as she described the state of my apartment, the state of me.

I closed my eyes, hoping to slip back into the dream, but sleep wouldn't come. I was still awake when my mother burst through the door some time later, her face pale with worry.

"Penelope, darling," she said, kneeling beside the couch. "What's happened to you?"

"Nothing," I said, turning my face away. "I'm fine."

"You are not fine," she insisted sharply. "You didn't answer my calls! People haven't seen you in days!"

"I'm just tired," I said, though even the excuse sounded feeble to my own ears.

"You're dehydrated," my mother said, pressing a glass of water to my lips. "And from the looks of your kitchen, you haven't eaten in days either. You need help, Penelope."

"I don't," I argued, but my voice was weak, my body betraying me as I struggled to sit up. The room spun, darkness creeping at the edges of my vision.

The last thing I heard was my mother's panicked voice telling Gia to call 911.

***

The sun was bright overhead as I walked down a flower-lined aisle. I wore a flowing white dress, a bouquet of wildflowers in my hands.

At the end of the aisle stood Thierry, waiting for me at a decorated altar. The air was filled with the sound of a string quartet playing softly.

Our eyes met, and the world seemed to fall away. Nothing existed but the two of us, connected by an invisible thread that pulled me toward him.

When I reached him, he took my hands in his. "You look beautiful," he said through a thick throat.

During the ceremony, we exchanged vows and rings, promising to love each other for all our days. When we kissed, it felt like coming home.

The scene shifted in a second. Same as last time.

We were on a tropical island, the honeymoon of my dreams. We swam in crystal-clear waters, explored lush rainforests, and dined under the stars.

Each moment was perfect, each touch electric. One evening, we took a small boat out onto the ocean to watch the sunset. The water reflected the fiery sky in shades of orange and pink.

"I love you," Thierry said, his arm around me as we watched the sun sink below the horizon.

"I love you too," I replied, leaning into him. "I wish this could last forever."

"Nothing lasts forever," he said, suddenly sad. "But that is what makes it precious."

The boat rocked gently beneath us. The colors of the sunset began to blur and fade. I felt myself slipping away, being pulled back to another reality.

"Don't go," Thierry whispered, holding me tighter. "Stay with me."

"I'm trying," I said, but the dream was already dissolving around me, Thierry's face the last thing to fade from view.

***

My eyes fluttered open to harsh fluorescent lights and the wail of a siren. I was lying on my back, strapped to something firm. A gurney. My head pounded, and my mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

Faces swam in and out of focus above me. Paramedics in uniform, their voices a garbled combination of medical jargon. And my mother, with her face etched with worry, was peering down at me.

"She's awake," someone said, and then Mom was squeezing my hand, tears in her eyes.

"Penelope, can you hear me?" she asked. "You're going to be okay. We're taking you to the hospital."

Hospital. The word penetrated the fog in my brain. I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry. I closed my eyes, hoping to slip back into the dream as always, back to Thierry, but medical unconsciousness wouldn't show me my husband.

And for the next few days, I could barely sleep. I was tested and constantly surrounded by concerned doctors. They told me I had severe dehydration, malnutrition, and even exhaustion despite how often I'd slept.

My body was screaming at me after days of neglect. But it was more than that. I had let go of my real life entirely, living instead in a world of dreams. One doctor told me that I almost died.

But thought it all, I didn't utter a word about Thierry or the dreams that felt more real than anything in the waking world. I kept those memories close, treasured, and private.

Yet, I felt like I had lost him, and the hospital staff was intuitive enough to still be concerned. A psychiatric evaluation led to a diagnosis of severe depression, and therapy was mandated as part of my treatment plan.

Once the sessions started, I began resting naturally and normally. But I no longer dreamed. Night after night, I closed my eyes, hoping to return to Thierry. Yet sleep was just sleep. Empty and black.

Months passed. I was given the clear to return to work and luckily, the library welcomed me back. I returned to my apartment and my quiet, real life. I never hated it more.

The drab colors of reality seemed even flatter now that I'd seen the vivid hues of my dreams. The silence of my apartment was heavier, knowing the sound of Thierry's laughter would never fill it.

***

"You're making progress," Tatiana, my therapist, told me during our weekly session. She was a woman in her 40s with calm eyes and a voice that never judged. "You're taking care of yourself again. That's important."

I nodded, though I wasn't sure I believed her. Was it progress to return to a life that felt empty? To wake up each morning knowing the best part of my life had been nothing but a dream?

"There's something I haven't told you," I said finally, looking out the window of her office at the park below. "Something about when I was... unwell."

"Take your time," she said, her expression open and patient. "There's no need to rush."

So I told her. About the café where I'd first met Thierry. About the market and the park and the balcony where he'd proposed. About our wedding and our honeymoon. I told her how real it had all felt, how alive I'd been in those dreams.

"And now?" she asked when I finished. "How do you feel now?"

"Hollow," I admitted. "Like I lost something real, something important. And the strangest part is that I haven't dreamed at all since the hospital. Not about Thierry, not about anything. It's just... empty."

Tatiana watched me thoughtfully, her head tilted slightly to one side. "Perhaps," she suggested after a moment, "you should write about him. Like a diary. Get it all out."

I considered this. "Write about him?"

"Yes. Sometimes when we lose someone, even someone who wasn't physically real, writing can help process that grief. It might also help you reconcile the parts of yourself that you expressed in these dreams—your desires for connection, for love, for adventure—with your waking life."

The idea took root, growing slowly over the following weeks. I began to write in the evenings after work. At first, it was just memories, trying to capture every detail of my time with Thierry before they faded.

But gradually, something else emerged. A story. A love story with elements of fantasy and magic. A world where dreams and reality could intertwine. A place where Thierry could exist again, in a way.

And with that story, my reality finally regained its color.

Six months after my hospitalization, I stood before a tall, elegant building with a brass plaque engraved with the publishing house's famous name. In my hands, I held a manuscript, the weight of it both terrifying and exhilarating.

Inside, an editor waited to discuss the love story I'd created, the tale of a woman who met the love of her life in her dreams.

It wasn't exactly what had happened to me as I'd changed some details, and added dragons and magic, but the heart of it was true. The longing, the connection, the love that felt more real than reality itself.

As I pushed open the heavy glass door, I felt something I hadn't felt since those dreams. Hope. Not for a return to that dream world, but for something new.

A way to bring some of that magic into this world, the real world. A way to make Thierry real, if only on the page.

And maybe, just maybe, a way to find that feeling again in my waking life. That feeling of being truly seen.

Here's another story: "Good morning, my love," Mercy whispered into the silence, waiting for an answer that never came. Two months had passed since Carl died, but she still poured his coffee, set his plate, and danced to their song. Neighbors whispered she lived with a ghost. Only one man saw the grief beneath the routine.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.