Imaginary Friend
I remember my first day. There was nothing, and then suddenly, there was Emily. Somehow, we were both three years old, even though I didn’t exist before that day. It didn’t make sense, and at the same time, it did. I was Emily’s, and she wanted a friend who was her age, so I was.
The second I met her, she asked me to play. I didn’t know much, but I knew how to play. Emily’s favorite game was Pretend. We would pretend to be princesses or fairies or astronauts or superheroes. Sometimes we would be lions on the Serengeti; sometimes we would be chefs in a restaurant.
But Emily didn’t always play Pretend. Sometimes we played tag and chased each other around the yard. Other times, we played hide-and-seek. No matter what we played, though, we played together. I was always there.
No one else could see me – not Emily’s parents or her friends or her older brother. But Emily always saw me. She would see me in preschool and whisper to me while her teachers taught numbers and letters. She would catch my eye at home when her parents scolded her and gave her a time out, knowing that I would be there with her. And when Emily didn’t have time for me, I waited patiently, knowing she would always come back. We were best friends, and that would never change.
Until it did. We were seven years old. It was recess, and I was watching Emily play with her classmates as I usually did. I was forever patient, just waiting for the moment she would look at me, see me standing there, ever loyal.
But she didn’t. She never looked at me that day. It was the first time she had spent an entire day without acknowledging me. That night, as I sat in the chair in the corner of her room, waiting for Emily to fall asleep, I looked down at my hands. They seemed . . . less real than they usually did. Instead of solid and whole, they looked blurry, like a half-remembered dream. What could it mean? Did Emily not want me anymore? Was I not good enough for her anymore?
The next day, Emily and I had a tea party. She smiled at me and laughed with me as if nothing had changed. When she went to bed that night, she whispered, “Goodnight,” and I was certain I had worried for nothing. Yet, when I looked down at my hands, they hadn’t solidified. They were still fuzzy and out of focus.
Over the next few months, Emily spent less time with me. When she was alone, she would call on me now and then to play a game, but she was rarely alone anymore. She was always busy. I waited patiently. I watched her with her friends, her parents, her teachers, her babysitters. And with each passing day, my body became less and less solid.
A year later, I am still waiting. It has been months since Emily looked at me. I wonder if she even thinks about me anymore. I can hardly even see myself. I think I will not be alive much longer. Then again, was I ever alive, except to Emily? Is there a point in living if not for her?
I miss her. I miss our days of being superheroes and princesses. I miss our secret-sharing and our storytelling. I miss being seen by her. But I think I am content. If I am disappearing, I think it means she doesn’t need me anymore, that I fulfilled my purpose. And I suppose, then, that it has been worth it.