text: Hi there. This is a 1.5k short story mainly focused on romance and philosophycal stuff. The setting is supposed to be a Victorian England. I'd be thankful if you take a bit of time to read it and give me your opinion on it and critisice it. Also, it is my first time posting in this sub so if you have any indications or recommendations I shall be thankful to hear them. Story: It was a dream. He knew it. He was painfully aware of it. He knew it was a dream as he looked at the mirror and found himself smiling. He knew it was a dream when he saw her sweet smile. He knew it was a dream as their laughters echoed under the ever-blue sky; as her eyes looked at him, flickered and sparkled and smiled at him; as he felt the tremulous warmth of her hand against his; as her lips grazed his; as he felt her scent on his arms, the tenderness of her skin, the softness of her hair, the playfulness in her smile, the light behind her eyes. Yes, it certainly was a dream. Of course it was. There was no way it was true. He desperately held on to that dream for he didn’t want to let go of her. He desperately held on to that dream, on to the sound of her laughter, on to the image of her eyes, on to her voice, on to everything that she was. He held on to that ephemeral dream, on to that midsummer fantasy that showed him what he desired. Perhaps that was why he loved and laughed and smiled and talked and was loved with every single piece of him inside that illusion; perhaps that was why he lived and felt alive inside that fantasy, inside that desire, inside that midsummer dream. Perhaps that was why he... He woke up alone, to the sound of passing carriages and to the gentle touch of daybreak rays. He woke up to the rooster’s song and to the white sheets. He woke up to the heartache of realizing that what he had dreamt was a dream after all. He woke up to the loneliness of his bedroom, to the unyielding pass of cruel time, to the tears that fell down his cheeks, to the sound of his sobbing. He woke up, yet his eyes did not see the ever-blue sky. There were no lips to graze his, nor echoing laughter, nor sparkling eyes, nor healing smiles, nor tremulous warmth. There was nothing. Just him, his arms empty, his heart aching, his eyes crying, his smile gone. When the rooster’s song was over, he stood up and slowly got dressed. He sighed. The house felt awfully empty and big, yet strangely suffocating. He would normally have a coffee every morning, but that day he just wanted to get out, to run away from those oppressive walls. Outside, it was a beautiful day. It was warm and the sun was bright, painfully bright, and the chicks were chirping and the cicadas buzzing. It felt like that midsummer weather wasn’t on tune with him. He sighed again and started walking. The streets were dirty as per usual and crowded despite being early in the morning. Thus, he walked away from the crowds and went to the outskirts of the town, and eventually, the cobbles were substituted by dirt and grass and the buildings by trees. He got to a small stream that flowed lazily under the shadows of willows and birch trees. The stream’s murmur and the brushing of the trees with the wind muffled his heartache, and the cool breeze felt light on his skin. He sat with his back against a willow and closed his eyes, trying to empty his mind and ease his pain. Some time passed, he heard footsteps closing in to him. He opened his eyes indolently, and met with a woman that sat under another willow in front of him. Her skin was softly tanned, contrasting with her white dress. The sunlight stole golden reflections from her nut-brown hair and her eyes looked at his. They were the color of verdant meadows under the summer sunlight. They looked at each other silently. “... Are you not planning to introduce yourself?” She finally spoke, her lips curved into a smile. “Are you?” “Not if you don’t.” “Then so be it.” He answered. ”The promise of a name for a name seems fair enough, yet, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and therefore names are but a way of referring to something. I can just think of you as a forest nymph.” “Do I seem like a forest nymph to you?” She asked incredulously and laughed. He smiled back. “Fair enough, it doesn’t seem accurate.” He stretched out his hand and bent forward. “My name is Arthur.” “Elaine.” She shook his hand and then he looked at his pocket watch and stood up. “I have got to go for today. May we meet again.” “So long.” She waved her hand and then sat back and closed her eyes as he had been doing moments ago. The ghost of a smile haunted her lips. He started his walk back town. His boots were slightly muddy and his pants had some grass stains. However, the weather didn’t feel as unpleasant as it had before. The warmth of the sun felt soothing, and he even found a certain melody to the cicadas’ and birds’ song. He felt like the song spoke of longing, of finding, and of new starts. He felt like it spoke of hope. He felt like it spoke of love and joy and smiles and warmth. He felt like it spoke of midsummer times. The next day, he set off early for the woods. His pace was firm and steady, and it mixed with the midsummer’s song. The lazy blowing of the wind was irregular and lonely, and gave dissonance to the song. The dissonance spoke of the despair of the knowing, of the gray clouds in the clear sky, of the shallowness of hearts, of the trifling sweat spilt, of the unsteadiness of justice, of the tears fallen to the earth, of the heartache that flesh is heir to, of the cold of loneliness, and of the relentless pass of time: it spoke of the futile fight against the heavens. When he got to the clearing, she was already there. As the previous day, she was sitting under a willow and had her eyes closed. An open book laid on her lap, its pages slightly withered. The wind, the dissonance of the song, blew again, making her hair disarrayed under the changing sun light. His chest strongly ached. Then, the wind stopped and for a moment everything became silent, dormant even, pausing the song. Her eyelids slowly opened and she looked at him and smiled. “What are you doing there, standing still? Come and sit. The breeze is specially good today.” And then, then the dormant forest seemed to come alive. The birds sang, the cicadas buzzed, the trees brushed, the stream flowed, and the wind blew too. Even the sun seemed to sing with its rays, even the earth seemed to sing with its softness, even the chirps sang with the awkwardness of the young, even the trees sang as they reached for the sky with their leaves with the wisdom of the old. Even the book seemed to scream the mysteries and the tears and the smiles that had been written into it. That, that was indeed the real midsummer song. It spoke of calm and stir, it spoke of old and young, it spoke of patience and rush, it spoke of friendship and hatred, it spoke of pain and love, it spoke of loneliness and belonging, of dreams and reality... It spoke of nothing and it spoke of everything. “You are right. The weather sure is nice today, Elaine.” The days passed, and the midsummer song was still everywhere for Arthur to listen to it. And he did. He listened to it under the midsummer sun. He listened to it between laughters and kisses, between chatters and silent caresses, while looking at those verdant eyes. Between smiles and sunshine, between summer forest and streams and bed sheets. But, somehow, he knew it. Yes, he was painfully aware of it. He knew it when he saw her sweet smile; when he heard her laughter; when he felt her skin and her lips; when he looked at her green, vibrant eyes, at her brimming with life green eyes; when he looked at her loving smile... Yes, it certainly was. Of course it was. There was no way it was true. It was indeed a dream. And he, foolishly, inanely, desperately, held on to that dream, on to her, on to his desire, on to that ephemeral dream, on to that midsummer fantasy. Perhaps that was why he loved and laughed and smiled and talked and was loved with every single piece of him inside that illusion; perhaps that was why he lived and felt alive inside that fantasy; perhaps that was why he had listened to the midsummer song inside that desire, inside that midsummer dream. Perhaps that was why he... He woke up alone, woke up to the heartache of realizing that what he had dreamt was a dream after all. He woke up to the loneliness of his bedroom, to the unyielding pass of cruel time, to the tears that fell down his cheeks, to the sound of his sobbing. He woke up, yet she wasn’t there, and neither was the song, and neither was his desire. There was nothing there. Nothing but tears and the lingering of a midsummer song and of a midsummer dream.