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Beyoncé stands before me, anger etched on her face, words like daggers cutting through the thick air between them. She’s scolding me, throwing harsh words that feel like they’re aimed straight at my heart. I’m crying, begging for forgiveness, but all I hear is the disgust in her voice, how I’ve become something she can’t stand.
“Disgusting!” she screams, and it echoes in the corners of my mind. “I can’t believe I trusted you! You’ve ruined everything!”
The sound of her voice slams against me, heavy and relentless. I want to reach out, to pull her back, to say it’s just a mistake, just a moment of weakness, but the space between us feels insurmountable. She’s throwing things—my things—like they mean nothing to her. Each item hits the floor with a finality that makes my heart race.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!” I cry, my voice small and desperate, but it doesn’t matter. She’s already made up her mind. “Please, don’t leave me!”
But her eyes are cold, and the door slams shut in my face.
I wake up, startled, the harsh reality of my nightmare still clinging to me like a damp fog. My heart pounds in my chest as I sit up on the couch, drenched in sweat, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream.
It feels too real, like it’s a prophecy or a warning of some sort. I can still hear her voice echoing in my head, and the pain of her words lingers on my skin. I push myself off the couch, feeling the chill of the early night air bite at my bare arms as I make my way to the bedroom.
As I step inside, I find Beyoncé beautifully and peacefully asleep, draped in white silk pajamas that cling gently to her form. Her hair is a halo around her head, and the moonlight spills in, casting a soft glow over her face. In that moment, she looks like an angel, untouched by the chaos that swirls in my mind.
I climb into bed beside her, the warmth radiating from her body a stark contrast to the chill of my own skin. I wrap my arms around her tightly, needing to feel her warmth and to reassure myself that she’s really here. The sound of her breathing calms me, but it does little to erase the fear gnawing at the edges of my consciousness.
“Baby?” she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep.
I can’t hold back the tears as I whisper, “I’m not okay.”
Beyoncé stirs, her hand finding my hair, gently stroking it as if trying to soothe my very soul. “What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice soft and filled with concern.
“I had a nightmare,” I confess, my voice trembling as I bury my face in her shoulder. “You were…you were breaking up with me. You were so angry.”
Her hand stills for a moment, and I can feel her breath hitch. “Oh, baby,” she murmurs, kissing the top of my head. “I’m not mad at you. I’m just disappointed.”
“I know,” I whisper, the weight of her words heavy on my heart. “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks, pulling back to look me in the face. Her eyes are searching, wanting to understand the depths of my fear.
