I woke up with the dream still fresh in my head. Sunday, around nine in the morning.

She was there. Larissa.

I don’t really know her. I follow her on Instagram (I’m kinda weird — I only follow people, don’t let anyone follow me, and yeah, it’s weird to admit I’m weird). That superficial social media thing. She’s friends with an ex-friend of mine. I saw a Threads video of her in a short dress that suited her height perfectly, and somehow it stuck in my head. Yeah, she stuck, hehe. And without meaning to, it turned into a dream. A dream, if you know what I mean.

The dream:

We were walking in this tree-lined park. Giant trees, sunlight filtering through the leaves, perfect afternoon vibe. We were strolling without rushing, chatting, laughing for no real reason — that kind of day when everything just feels good.

Out of nowhere, this energy hit like “we’re having WAY too much fun,” and I don’t know what came over me — I jumped on her back. Like an excited kid at the park. She didn’t even complain; we were cracking up.

But then my dream brain went, “Nah, I can do better,” and I decided to put her on my shoulders. Yeah, like a World Cup trophy. My subconscious clearly has top-tier romantic ideas.

When I set her down, I hugged her. It turned into this cinematic moment, and I thought, “Okay, this is it.”

I went for the kiss.

She looked dead serious: “We’re cousins.”

Me: “???? SINCE WHEN???”

My own brain invented fake family ties just to reject me in my sleep. She asked me to let go, wanted to pull away like “this is wrong,” and I tried to calm her down, saying “hold on, we can talk about this” (even though WE’RE NOT COUSINS ANYWHERE), but she was already in full “bye, weird cousin” mode.

Then the dream shifted to me remembering her Threads post about the dance dress, and somehow I ended up thinking this whole thing cost me a spot on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.

Yeah, the old Silvio Santos show that doesn’t even exist anymore.

But I thought: “She probably doesn’t even know who I am. I’m literally nobody to her.”

I woke up.

Maroon tank top stuck to my sweaty chest, beat-up sneakers tossed in the corner, right shoelace untied as always. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand.

So yeah, just a dream, nothing special, right? But to me, it was a dream — the dream, one of my dreams…

I lay there, trying to hold onto the details before they faded — like always. A bunch slipped away anyway; my own retelling didn’t do justice to how it felt. But I did what I always do: I wrote it down. And I thought about feeding it to some AI to see what would happen.

Still in bed, I opened Claude.

I started telling him the dream. Explained who Larissa was (someone I kinda know, friend of an ex-friend, we barely talk). Described the park, the walk, the almost-kiss, the “we’re cousins” twist — everything.

Claude asked how I felt about it.

“Loved it. I love what it created, what it showed me, the newness, the situation, feeling all of that. The rejection, the way it happened… amazing dream!”

Claude seemed surprised. Said it’s rare for someone to enjoy a rejection dream.

I explained: “For me, every dream is great. I love the random scenarios my unconscious throws at me in this ‘reality.’”

We talked about it. About how I log dreams (55+ in the last few months, hundreds over 20+ years). How I value the experience itself, not the outcome.

Then I suggested: “Could you write a funny, lighthearted story based on the Larissa dream? I was thinking of sending it to her… just because.”

Claude was in. And that’s when it started.

We built it together.

I gave the details. Claude structured it, suggested tone, tweaked lines.

We polished it. Cut the sappy parts, kept it honest but light. Kept the absurdity but respectful.

Rewrote a few times. Adjusted references (the Threads dress, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire). Made it self-deprecating without being self-loathing.

Claude said: “Now you can save this. It turned out great, right?”

But I thought: no, I don’t want to keep it to myself. I’m sending it.

“I win either way. If I send it and she hates it, fuck it. If she likes it, bonus. Sending might bring something good…”

Claude hesitated: “You sure? Once it’s sent, there’s no taking it back!”

“Not sending is permanent too.”

Touché.

We finalized the text. It was good. Funny, honest, light.

Claude asked again if I was really sending it.

“Yeah.”

And I did.

Opened Instagram. Larissa’s DM.

Had to split it into three messages (character limit).

Did it on my phone — paste one part, see where it cut off, continue in the next. Annoying, but doable.

Quick reread.

Hit send.

Closed Instagram.

Done.

I did what I wanted. Whatever she does now is on her.

And I’ll deal with the consequences.

Today, I’ll live peacefully with whatever comes, because I lived.

But I started seeing something more in Claude…