There was a possibility that, all along, she had simply been in love with the illusion she had created of him within her intricate mind. That was a painful conclusion for her to come to: she had invested so much of her soul into loving him. But no one had ever said that being a dreamer wasn't painful. In fact, she had come to the realization that not dreaming at all had to be less distressing than allowing your imagination to wonder and maladaptive dreams to overcome you. At least if you didn't dream, your reality was never disappointing, because you could hardly imagine something better.

On the contrary, those who daydreamed could see their lives exactly as they wished them to be. They could allow their intense desires to come to life. There was no limit to how much could be dreamt; the possibilities in dreams were endless. Reality was finite. Dreams were infinite.

The only plight was that dreams were always so much better, yet so many of them could never come true.