What's Real To Me - 1. What's Real To Me

We sat down on a bench in the park, enjoying the cool breeze as the sun set. The leaves were dancing all around us as they swayed and glided to the ground. The entire place was painted with the leaves—hues of crimson, orange, and gold making a vivid display on the trees and the earth. I appreciated his company. He was always there for me, since I was a little kid until even now as I just celebrated my twentieth birthday.

His brown hair, usually let down to just graze the nape of his neck, was tied up into a short ponytail he seldom wore. His deep brown eyes gazed over the path as passersby came and went. He hadn't aged a day since I last saw him; his frame was still as firm and solid as when we first met. Even in twenty years, the only difference I really noticed was a beard. He watched the small families playing at the playground with unbridled laughter and mirth. He smiled to himself. I remembered how he'd tag along with me as I explored the forests by our old home, always keeping watch on me when I was still a child. I remember how he would hold my hand as we made our way back to the house even in the dead of night.

“All these years and you aren't sick of my company?” he suddenly asked me.

I shook my head. I could never get sick of him. He always made me smile, always comforted me, and always gave me advice whenever I needed him. He helped me make sense of things and make myself a better person. The thought warmed my heart. He looked at me, and the corner of his lips twitched, suppressing an all-too-familiar chuckle.

“You know, I always thought it'd be bad for you if you kept having me around. Turns out you're doing pretty okay.”

“Just fairly,” I admitted.

He only nodded and patted me on the shoulder. Each pat wasn't the usual sensation you'd get from someone. His was like the whisper of a wind, faint and gentle, but if you're sensitive enough, or aware enough, it was there. And it wasn't warm. It was a little chilly actually. I sighed and curled a bit inward, and this time I heard him chuckle. I looked at him as he gave me a thoughtful glance. “What surprises me even more is how you acknowledge what I am.”

I really couldn't answer that. I held him close all these years. I was afraid of letting him go, but in a way, I already had. And yet I kept dragging him back. Some part of me was berating myself for doing that, and another reminded me it didn't matter. I looked back at him and saw the sunbeam pass through him. And I reminded myself how the shadow under him was always too uniform.

He was here because I want him to be, and I wanted him to want it, too.

“Don't make yourself feel guilty,” he chided, eyes focused on a group of kids playing in the distance. “It's pointless wallowing, after all. Especially over a figment of your mind.”

His words stung hard, and I had to retort. “You're real to me,” I muttered softly. I knew he heard it. He always did. I felt his arm around my shoulders as we watched the sky. We watched the clouds pass over us. As the sun set, I got up, and he followed suit. I checked my pockets subtly, a habit I picked up from him, before heading home. He wasn't really there, but I knew he was with me.

He kept pace with me, beside me, just enjoying the landscape on our way home. On the way, I stopped in front of a quiet little bakery. An old, fond memory of Chris baking with me popped into my head. We were baking muffins. He was checking the oven and helping me stir. He even made a small batch of frosting to top them off. God, how long ago was that? We were having guests over. I wasn't sure if they thought me crazy or not. I could only imagine what they thought of me: a strange teenager talking to nothing but hot air. Sometimes I wondered how he even did the things he did or if it was me, making me question which memories were real and which were just woven for my convenience.

I felt paranoid whenever they asked who I was talking to, because deep in my heart I knew Chris wasn't a person I could explicitly share. How do you share someone only you could see? How do you make them understand? But Chris just smiled reassuringly at me, even as I answered 'no one'. Sometimes, it made me sick. It felt like I was betraying him, but before I'd go to bed, he'd tell me otherwise and that he understood. And he'd hum a song to me to help me sleep, the tune of an old lullaby I learned from my grandmother, which was an old Christian song.

Thank you, Lord, for saving my soul,

Thank you, Lord, for making me whole,

Thank you, Lord, for giving to me,

Thy great salvation so rich and free…

And then he would hold my hand as I drifted off to sleep every night.

I was shaken out of my trip down memory lane when he decided to stand in front of me and jab a finger on my chest. “What is it, Chris?”

“I'll always be right here.”

The line was so absurdly familiar I cracked a smile. I held his hand over my chest, letting the palm rest over my heart, and nodded. I couldn't stop the tears that welled up in my eyes. Every day, it felt like he was here, but he wasn't.

Sometimes, it's like mourning for someone. When my thoughts wandered to him, sometimes I'd feel empty. Every touch was but a brush of wind, a tease that tugged at my heartstrings, right until the sensations pulled at the seams of my heart, making me wish those fleeting touches were real, solid, but knowing nothing could change the reality. And in the midst of the onslaught of emotions, I would feel a pain that devoured not just my heart, but my chest, crawling further and further until my body wracked with pain and grief.

I keep his memory just so I'd feel he was still near, even when somewhere inside me, I knew he wasn't. He's not around. He's not even alive. He never was. Knowing that fact hurts, but I don't let go because...these thoughts, these memories, they make me happy. Therapy keeps telling me to let them go, but they don't do bad things. He doesn't. When I think of something stupid, he snaps sense into me. Before I do something, he gives me reminders, pointers. And being told I'm a freak because I keep him close hurts. But I guess it shouldn't matter because no matter what, he was always there. He always will be.

“I know you will,” I whispered back.

“Excuse me?” a voice suddenly called out. I spun around out of instinct, failing to remember to make myself look decent. I must have looked like a pathetic case, with puffed eyes and sniffling red nose. The initial concern on the stranger's face practically tripled. “Hey, um, you okay?”

I nodded. “Just... thinking.” I turned to give one last glance at the bakery. “It was just such a nice display.”

“Well, nice of you to think my grandma still has it in her,” he snickered. “Um, you gonna be alright, for sure? Need me to walk you home? It's getting late.”

I looked around and noticed the moon was already up, and the sky was twice as dark as I noticed earlier. And not wanting to sound like a douche, I replied, “Only if it won't really trouble you.”

“No worries!” he assured me. “The name's Nathan. And you're?”

“Noel.” We shook hands and went on our way. His firm grip was warm and, well, tight. Almost crushed my own hand, to be honest. As we rounded the corner, I could see Chris leaning up against a wall, smirking. I shook my head at him. His ideas were my own, though, so it was hardly his fault.

But I know he would always be there to back me up.