The Turn We Couldn’t Make

Last night, I dreamt of Vic — a dream that carried me back to the time before Kenzo, before everything changed.

We were driving together in his black Subaru WRX, heading down Alexander Drive toward our old house in Ballajura. The world felt younger, quieter, untouched by everything that would eventually unfold.

As we approached the intersection of Alexander Drive and Marangaroo Drive, we intended to turn right. That was the plan. That was the direction home.

But we had edged too far forward.
The turn couldn’t be made anymore.

I told Vic to swerve left instead and just keep going straight. He didn’t question it. He simply followed my voice. We continued driving down Alexander Drive — further from the turn we meant to take, further from the road that once led us home.

That’s when I woke.
The time on my phone was 4:29 a.m.
That quiet hour where dreams feel closest to truth.

Reflections

This dream came like a soft echo of an earlier chapter — a reminder of the life we once lived, the roads we shared, and the choices we never got to make.

The intersection felt symbolic, as if my heart was showing me something I already knew:

We reached a point in life where we couldn’t turn back anymore.
Even if we wanted to.
Even if part of me still wishes for that old, familiar road.

In the dream, telling him to “swerve left” felt instinctive — a gentle acceptance that the past cannot be re-entered, no matter how clearly I can still see it.

And yet, the way he drove — steady, calm, without protest — made me feel like he was still travelling beside me. Even in dreams, he remains the one I trusted to take the wheel.

Waking at 4:29, that thin place between night and morning, felt like a quiet touch — a reminder that some journeys don’t end, they simply change direction.

Maybe that’s what the dream was trying to tell me:

We couldn’t go back.
But we kept going.
And even now, he walks — or drives — alongside me, just in a different way.

✨ Some turns are lost to time, but the road forward still carries the echo of who once travelled it with me.

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