I had a dream last night about a man who tried to love me. In the dream, we were at a movie theater in an unfamiliar town. He was wearing Air Force dress blues; odd because he never served in the military. The theater was packed with what seemed like a black church congregation. There was a friendly familiarity to the crowd, and I easily engaged in polite conversation. After a few pleasantries, I found my seat. At some point, I realized my overdressed companion had disappeared, and I sat down, waiting.

I felt neither impatient nor expectant. I had a sense that I was carrying a sweet secret—not devious, not sexual. A comfortable warmth.

When he returned, he took the seat beside me. The seats were wide and allowed two people to sit closely without the hassle of an armrest in the way. I turned to my right side. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around me. As we reclined there, I felt the touch of his hand stroking the side of my face. I leaned into the warmth, took his hand in mine, and buried myself deeper into the curve of his body. I didn’t rush, stiffen, or hesitate. I let myself breathe into the comfort and security of his large frame. It was fully clothed intimacy.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, we were approached by a member of the theater staff who abruptly asked us to leave. It was a beautiful moment brought to a screeching halt.

Right then, my eyes fluttered open. Not with a start, not with shame, not with embarrassment, but with serenity and longing to go back to the dream.

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I lay in bed trying to make sense of what happened for a while. After all, I hadn’t thought of him in years.

We were coworkers a long time ago, both police officers. At the time, we were young and wild and single. Back then, he was seeing someone, and I was tangled up with someone I shouldn’t have been. Our friendship developed quickly, and I always suspected he wanted more. He was never too far away—always around for lunch, or available to help when I called on the radio.

Sometimes we went on long patrols together and talked. Those daily rounds almost always ended up by a lake near where we worked. It was those times together I remember the most. We really talked down by the lake. I remembered him always working an angle; dropping flirtatious comments here and there. I liked it but acted like I didn’t.

We were both stumbling through our twenties without a clue. He told me about the woman he was seeing; she wanted marriage, kids, the house. He wasn’t ready but loved her and didn’t want to hurt her, so he went along. It was like a river rushing too fast. I told him I was in quicksand, and the more I fought, the deeper I sank.

He was a big man, at least six-foot-four. He seemed like a gentle giant but showed me several times he was not to be trifled with. The bear inside him wasn’t afraid to speak his mind when forced to. He told me once, big guys had to learn to fight early because it’s the big guy people try to take down first. I admit, it impressed me. Being with him made me feel safe at a time when my life was ruled by fear and chaos.

The gentle giant drank a little too much, but at the time, so did I. Alcohol was the fuel that drove our dance: back and forth, pushing and pulling. Both wanting something more but too afraid to take the leap.

One crazy night, I messaged him from a quiet hotel room, asking him to come over. He didn’t. I pulled; he pushed. We planned a lunch date once. I got scared and backed out. He pulled and I pushed.

The night before his wedding, he called me from his bachelor party. The phone rang. I answered and heard laughter in the background; his friends begging him to hang up. With slurred speech, right there in front of all his drunk groomsmen, he admitted his feelings for me. We sat in an awkwardness; he waited for a response I couldn’t give.

He married her the next day and spent the next few years trying to be a good husband. I think he was. They eventually divorced.

Sometime later, I accepted a new job, but we stayed in touch and messaged each other daily. We both fell on dark times. He struggled through his circumstances and I with mine. We managed to find solace in each other. We were like lonely pen pals, reaching out, grasping for something to hold onto.

At some point, our messages got more intimate. He shared hidden parts of himself with me. I discovered he was an amateur photographer. He liked getting up early on Saturday mornings to take landscape photos. They were beautiful, and I encouraged him to keep it up. On some level, part of me understood what he was trying to do. He wanted to be seen; he wanted me to know he was more than just a funny West Virginia corn-fed boy. By sharing himself, he invited me to open up. But I couldn’t. At that time, I abhorred vulnerability; I saw it as a weakness I wanted to avoid. I couldn’t drop my armor. I wasn’t ready to show him who I was behind my endless masks. It was too scary for me. He tried so hard, and I just couldn’t.

The relationship continued for a long time. And one night, after my dinner plans ended early, I sent him a text on my way home. He happened to be in the area, and we decided to meet for drinks at a local joint.

It was so much fun. We drank, laughed, and played around with each other at the bar, flirting. The bartender got in on the conversation and encouraged the back and forth. We laughed and confessed things with the bartender acting as witness.

As the restaurant closed, I asked him to walk me to my car, keenly aware of what I was doing. Being the big gentleman he was, he happily obliged. As I stood by the driver’s side door, keys in hand, the years of tension from our playful dance welled up until neither of us could deny it any longer. He grabbed me and pulled me into his chest, and I relented. He kissed me so hard my knees nearly buckled underneath me. We found ourselves in my car for what seemed like hours; the desire ebbing and flowing. It was intense. However, we never made love. I am not sure why, but something kept us from it.

After that night, I thought about all those times he and I spent at the lake. I remembered his silly jokes about his sexual prowess and his unusual talent of reading women. I always thought he was being ridiculous and rolled my eyes in response.

But that night, he really read me; and he read me well. And I responded in kind. It was beautiful, and it was the first time I had ever felt that level of passion and desire.

Of course, the next day, I felt guilty, hungover, and awful. For years, I felt shame over the events that took place that night.

After our wild night at the restaurant, we still talked. But deep down, something was different. The messages were less frequent until they became non-existent. I tried to reach out a few times through the years, but never got a response.

We both knew we were never meant to be together. We couldn’t have lasted; neither of us was equipped at the time.

Looking back now, I don’t see it as a mistake to be forgotten. I no longer carry shame. Instead, I see it as a brief moment in time when a man from West Virginia made me feel safe, desired, and connected.

The dream helped me understand.

I’m almost certain he’s married now, with children. I hope he’s happy—and I believe he is.

I’m thankful for the time we spent together as friends and almost lovers. I am glad I can now look back on that night without shame or embarrassment. I hope that when he thinks of me, if he ever does, he can look back fondly and remember what we gave each other. I, for one, am grateful.

So, thanks, West Virginia boy.