Echoes Of Victor

I dreamt of Vic last night. We were in a house that felt like home - not a house I recognise, not a place from memory, but a space that carried the feeling of belonging. The kind of home that doesn’t need walls or an address to be understood. It was changeover time. He had come to pick Kenzo up. Vic looked tired. Not rushed. Not distressed. Just worn - like someone who had carried more than most, for longer than anyone should have to. Seeing him like that stirred something instinctive in me. I looked at him and asked, simply, “Do you want to stay?” There was no pleading in my voice. No urgency. Just an offering. He met my eyes and nodded quietly. And that was it. That was the whole dream. That nod stays with me. Not as a promise to undo what’s already happened but as something gentler. A moment where love wasn’t about obligation or schedules or separation. Just choice. Just presence. Maybe the dream wasn’t about changing the past. Maybe it was about giving both of us permission ...

Last night, I had a dream about Vic, one that felt so vivid, so close, it lingered on my skin even after I woke. I saw myself walking down a narrow lane near home. The surroundings didn’t look familiar, yet somehow I knew exactly where I was going. It was as if my feet remembered a path my memory couldn’t name. At the end of the lane, I saw Vic. He was standing outside a house I didn’t recognise, still, steady, as if he had been waiting for me all along. I walked straight into his arms and hugged him tightly. Not just a polite embrace, but the kind of hug that pulls two people completely together, chest to chest, legs touching, the whole world narrowing into one shared breath. He leaned in close, his voice gentle and worn, and whispered into my ear: “I’m really tired. Let’s go home.” Something in me softened, broke, healed, all at once. I held him and began walking back with him, slowly, carefully, like the moment was fragile and I couldn’t risk waking too soon. His weight fe...

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. This dream came like a soft echo of an earlier chapter, a reminder of the life we once lived, the roads we ...

I dreamt of Vic last night. We were in a house, not one I know in real life, but one that felt safe, familiar, almost like a place between here and somewhere softer. He was already sick, but calm. He walked toward the carport, heading to his car. From behind, I called out to him, “I took your car for a service the other day, but they didn’t have time to wash and vacuum it.” He turned slightly, looked back, and nodded. Quietly. Gently. The way he always did when words weren’t needed. The scene shifted. I was suddenly awake within the dream, walking into the living room. The carport was empty, his car gone. I just stood there, looking out, waiting or maybe remembering. Then came another scene. I walked up to him and wrapped my arms around him. I asked softly, “If it were possible… could we get back together?” He looked at me tenderly and asked, “Why do you like me so much?” And I answered without thinking, “Because you’re my rock. You’re kind. You were always there fo...

I dreamt of Vic tonight, my third dream of him since his passing. We were away on holiday, staying in a house by the beach. The light was soft, the air still. Kenzo was there too, getting ready to head down to the shore with his dad. I walked into the room and said, almost instinctively, “I asked for copies of your photos with Kenzo, just copies, not to take them all, but your family refused.” Without looking up as he helped Kenzo get ready, he replied quietly, “The photos are in safe hands.” Frustration rose in me. “I know they’re in safe hands, but I just wanted copies. Why are they making it so hard for me? Kenzo needs to remember you now, not when he’s eighteen. By then, he might not remember you as much.” He paused, then said gently, “I know what you wanted to do with the photos. I see the pattern you’re creating. I appreciate it.” And somehow, those words softened everything. The dream shifted. I was walking from the house toward the water. To my right, I cau...

Dear Vic, I dreamed of you last night, my second dream of you in a long time. You were driving me to work, with Kenzo sitting quietly in the back seat. It wasn’t my real workplace, but somewhere unfamiliar, like an in-between place where time doesn’t quite exist. We were talking about small things, the kind of simple, everyday conversations that I miss the most. I asked you to pull over somewhere safe so I could play the K-pop song that Kenzo sang. You took my phone gently, listening as if it meant something. Then you and Kenzo walked down a few steps into a karaoke shop, each holding a microphone, as though preparing for one last duet together. I remember telling you, “Your brother cleaned out all your gaming toys - did you know that?” You nodded. Then I said, “I’m going to clean up your house this weekend.” Again, you nodded. So calm. So quiet. I wanted to stop you before you left, to beg you, “Please don’t go to the hospital again. Please stay.” But the words never cam...