You walk around the room, smiling and collecting your things because you’re late for work. Our eyes meet and you stop – my heart flutters. You grin, jumping on the bed and leap forward to kiss my forehead. Sheepishly, I take out your things that I had hidden under the pillow.
Late at night, you come home tired. I undo your hair and make you a drink. You smile a beautiful smile and tell me about your day. You listen about mine. You listen carefully about the book I am working on. You want to read the beginning pages, but I tell you that I want to work on it more before I let you see it. You decide to wait a little longer.
You never tell me that I don’t have a real job, that I’m just a writer and you are the one who supports this family.
When we go out, you are proud to be with me. You hold my hand and we steal glances at parties. You point out the other pretty girls and we look at them together. We keep a score of who noticed more pretty girls in a day, and I win every time. Because I notice you.
We go bowling and you beat me because I’m not into sports and you love it because you’re certain you’ll always win.
Late at night, the other side of my bed is not empty. I have you, holding a cup of coffee or with a tub of ice-cream, looking at me as I read out a book for both of us.
We have our hard days but we work on it together. Sometimes, you bring my favourite cake with ‘sorry’ written on it. Other times, I bake a cake at home for you.
But who am I kidding? None of this is real. You are not real. The other side of the bed is empty and I bake a cake just for myself and I continue to write, knowing nobody wants to read my story. This should make break my heart but it doesn’t. It just fills me with a longing that one day, I’ll find someone like you. Until then, I’ll keep making you up and you’ll keep fading away.
You’re just a figment of my imagination.
Late at night, you come home tired. I undo your hair and make you a drink. You smile a beautiful smile and tell me about your day. You listen about mine. You listen carefully about the book I am working on. You want to read the beginning pages, but I tell you that I want to work on it more before I let you see it. You decide to wait a little longer.
You never tell me that I don’t have a real job, that I’m just a writer and you are the one who supports this family.
When we go out, you are proud to be with me. You hold my hand and we steal glances at parties. You point out the other pretty girls and we look at them together. We keep a score of who noticed more pretty girls in a day, and I win every time. Because I notice you.
We go bowling and you beat me because I’m not into sports and you love it because you’re certain you’ll always win.
Late at night, the other side of my bed is not empty. I have you, holding a cup of coffee or with a tub of ice-cream, looking at me as I read out a book for both of us.
We have our hard days but we work on it together. Sometimes, you bring my favourite cake with ‘sorry’ written on it. Other times, I bake a cake at home for you.
But who am I kidding? None of this is real. You are not real. The other side of the bed is empty and I bake a cake just for myself and I continue to write, knowing nobody wants to read my story. This should make break my heart but it doesn’t. It just fills me with a longing that one day, I’ll find someone like you. Until then, I’ll keep making you up and you’ll keep fading away.
You’re just a figment of my imagination.
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