(Unfinished) Week 10: Imaginary Friend

After years of gentile persuasion your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you slowly start to realize that you are her imaginary friend.*

* Wrote this, didn't finish. Still going to post because I'm stubborn and want to continue my challenge. 

She never really belonged. At school, I was painfully shy and barely talked to anyone. Well, really I wouldn’t talk to anyone. Because of this, she hung out with me a lot. Made sure I got a seat next to her in the lunch room or the desk behind her, would always make up songs and stories with me to entertain ourselves in the hours of loneliness. Other kids noticed, and since they thought I was strange, she was strange by association. I could barely look at people in the face; she was my voice and reason for living. 

As we got older our attachment grew stronger. Others were moving on, making new friends, finding boyfriends, but me and her were thick as thieves, two weirdoes trying to find a place where we fit in this world. 

She had a harder time accepting this than me. I was used to people glancing over me like I wasn’t even there, interrupting me, forgetting to call my name even though Eleanor would always remind them. She didn’t realize that weirdness would stick to you like a bad smell; wafting along with you, undeniable and uncomfortably yours. She made no other friends than me, and I was secretly relieved. 

When we moved into our first studio, she spent the first night contemplating, a noosed rope sitting loosely in her hands, glancing up at the tall exposed ceilings. I felt betrayed, knowing those beams (“Oh, I love the ceilings!” she exclaimed when we went to tour the place) were the reason why we were here. I was shaking, pacing, trying to convince her not to do it. For hours I paced, my footsteps echoing up into the still-empty apartment, our boxes small in number and size, stacked up on the wall. A lone air mattress was laid out, uninflected. 

She made it through the first night, and the next day we went to a therapist. 
Her name was Stacy, and I hated her instantly. 

“Eleanor, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” she started, her stiff white shirt crinkled as she leaned back in her seat. 
Eleanor took a shaky breath in. “Well, my friendship with Grace is causing problems.” 
I jumped at this news. “What?” I exclaimed. She turned her head at me and shrugged. 
“Well, it’s true.” 
“Eleanor,” Stacey interjected, waving her hand in my direction. “Who are you talking to?”
“Are you serious right now?” I interjected. “She’s not serious.” 
“Sometimes you don’t see it. When people talk badly about you,” Eleanor explained, leaning in. “They say you’re not real.”
I rolled my eyes at her. “There is no way I’m not real. We’ve been friends since forever, everyone knows that.” 
She looked back at the therapist. “I’m talking to Grace, my friend.” 
“Your friend, Grace. I see.”
“Okay, I am used to people ignoring my presence but this is next level,” I whispered to Eleanor.