I woke up in a panic. It’s 8 in the morning, and the shirt I slept in is sticking to my neck. I woke up in a panic, but I’m not panicking. I’m relieved. Not panicking. Not scared. Am I okay?

I take a few deep breaths in through my nose and slowly let my morning breath out of my mouth. I must’ve slept with my mouth open, because there’s a subtle knot in my throat — the kind you get after yelling at a concert the night before. But I didn’t attend a concert last night.

I sit up in bed, glance at my digital clock sitting on my dresser across the room from my bed. Waking up 30 minutes before the alarm is supposed to go off is diabolical. I sigh, disappointed. Still, I get out of bed, mildly resentful of whatever dream had the audacity to wake me early.

Sitting at the edge of my bed, I feel myself slowly waking up like the rising of the sun. I shake the thought out of my head that I’m overanalyzing my feelings. One last grounding breath in and then slowly out.

I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth, and while brushing, the foaming toothpaste makes me feel like a rabid animal. I walk towards my plants to give them a little check. Still brushing my teeth, I give my monstera a light spritz on the leaves, and I spray the soil of my two tiny carnivorous plants. I forget what they’re called, but they are growing, and honestly, I’ve never had a green thumb, so I’m a little proud of myself.

I feel the toothpaste foam about to fall from the side of my mouth, so I do a quick prance back to my bathroom. I finish brushing my teeth. As I look in the mirror, my oversized sleeping shirt drapes and covers me up slightly past my solar plexus.

I’m still staring at the reflection in the mirror. First, I see a body in an oversized shirt, then I squint to see that the shirt is actually floating. I unsquint to see the body back in place, tilt my head, and slightly smirk. What is this shirt hiding underneath? Why am I curious to find out like I’ve never seen myself naked before?

Maybe I haven’t.

I walk away from the mirror before I start to tear the body in the reflection apart. I’m hung up on the fact I can’t remember my dream, the fact that I’m stuck on that bothers me more than anything. A dream is a dream is a dream. They don’t mean anything.

I go about my regular routine. I get my coffee ready and while the coffee pot is percolating, I go back to the scene of the crime, my bed, to grab my phone. A bubbling urge to create stops me. Or maybe I just need to take a shit? I don’t remember the dream, but it bothers me because it woke me up anxiously on the outside, but on the inside, it gently nudged something awake.

I grab my phone. Make my bed and pretend like the dream never existed. Instead, I think to myself it’ll come to me when it’s ready to be seen.