Valentine’s Day was drawing near, yet the flat had been filled with a quiet tension for days. It wasn’t an argument, not even a disagreement - more like a careful distance neither of them dared to name.
At night, the woman struggled to sleep. For weeks, only her blue pillow had offered the slightest comfort - that soft, calming shade that somehow always helped her breathe a little easier. Still, her dreams were restless, and every morning she woke more tired than when she’d gone to bed.
The man saw all of this. And every evening, when she tried to fall asleep, he sat beside her in the dark feeling utterly helpless. He didn’t know how to ease her mind. He didn’t know what to say. He only knew something was missing - something he desperately wanted to give back to her.
Meanwhile, the woman noticed how distracted he’d become. How he paused mid‑sentence, as if he’d forgotten what he meant to say. How he stared at his phone for a little too long. Slowly, a question began to form inside her: “Will there even be a Valentine’s Day for us this year?”
One evening, when he’d left his laptop open, she accidentally caught sight of a message. A woman’s name flashed on the screen. It was clear they’d been talking for days. Her heart tightened. She didn’t see the content - only the name, only the timing - and the uncertainty settled over her like a cold draft.
That night, she slept even worse.
The man, meanwhile, kept searching. He didn’t want to buy flowers, or chocolates, or anything predictable. He wanted something that truly mattered. Something that might ease her fears and soften her nights.
That’s how he found a craftswoman who made dreamcatchers - not the bright, loud ones, but pieces with a quiet, gentle beauty. They’d been talking for days: the sky‑blue shade was essential, and the soft whiteness of clouds, so that the piece would echo the colours she found comforting.
On the morning of Valentine’s Day, the woman woke tense. The man paced the living room nervously, holding a soft paper gift bag with the dreamcatcher carefully wrapped inside. When she walked in, he stopped and looked at her for a long moment - then stepped forward.
“I’d like to give you something,” he said quietly.
Her hands trembled as she took the bag, though she didn’t know why. Inside, she found a dreamcatcher: a white frame, with soft sky‑blue feathers, as if tiny clouds were clinging to its edge.
Her eyes filled with tears. The man then handed her a small card the craftswoman had included:
“Thank you for trusting me with this special gift. I hope it helps her dream peacefully again.”
In that moment, the woman understood the message she’d seen days earlier. It wasn’t another woman. It wasn’t a secret. It was a man who didn’t know how to say that he wanted, more than anything, for her to sleep without fear.
She rested her head on his shoulder.
“You really… wanted to fix my dreams,” she whispered.
He replied softly:
“I’ve always wanted you to have a place where you feel safe. Even when you’re asleep.”
She looked at the dreamcatcher, and for the first time in a long while, she felt there might be a night ahead when she wouldn’t have to fear her own dreams.
And somehow, they both knew: sometimes a few soft, sky‑blue feathers are enough to help someone find their way back home to themselves.
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