John first dreams of Shelly

I know this is a dream. I've never been able to lucid dream much, but somehow, I know that the Shelly sitting beside me, and the dimmed living room we are in, the Netflix on in front of us and blankets around our knees and mom and dad nowhere to be seen, all this is a dream.

I don't know why. Before I had fallen asleep just moments ago (or hours? I can't tell), I thought of how nice it would be to be watching a movie with my sister, under blankets on the living room couch like we did two years ago. Then she turned 18, started bringing her boyfriends over when mom and dad weren't home, and we started talking less and less. We grew apart.

Shelly is wearing a beige camisole. She laughs at a joke in the movie that I missed, and I remember that familiar, sweet laugh. She's grown bigger since my last memory of us like this, particularly her chest, but she doesn't seem to mind that the camisole is loose and shows the contours of her cleavage, glowing in a soft neon from the light of the TV under the comfortable darkness of the room.

I also know that Shelly is having the exact same dream. That means she is here - this is Shelly. It feels like a connection has been made in our minds, I don't know how to describe it, but it's there.

This is all too surreal. I look at my hands, silhouetted against the TV, and around the living room. They are all in minute detail, but the outside the windows lies a quiet of the void, as if nothing existed outside this dream space. Shelly and I, we are both alone. Truly, truly alone here.

"Shelly?" I say. She doesn't hear the first time, so I call again.

"Hmm?"

"I think we're in a dream," I say.

She stops for a second, as if realizing. She looks at her hand, then around, then back at me. "Wow, I guess we are."

I don't know what to do next, but the intimacy of this place feels strange and amazing. Like we're the last two people on Earth.

She gets up, and picks up a cup and spills the milk onto the floor.

"Just trying stuff out," she says, shrugging.

I watch as she walks around the room, trying to open doors which are locked and climb up the stairs, but it's all darkness once she crosses the fifth step. I don't understand how she keeps on climbing but still ends up at the same place, but she does.

She's also wearing tight cotton shorts, which look comfortable and hug her form. I know she's attractive, but I never think of her that way.

"This is a little creepy," she says, and sits back at the couch next to me. "Are you here, John?"

"What do you mean, am I here?"

She reaches out and touches my hair, like she did when we were younger, only that she wasn't this... developed.

"Hello John, from my dream," she says, looking at me with fascination.

She then raises both her arms in an awkward pose.

"What are you doing?"

She smiles at me. "You're actually really real!" she says. "I'm trying to fly. People in dreams can usually fly, right?"

"I don't know," I say. But then I feel a slight urge in me to give something to her. I'm not sure what exactly, but it feels important.