Rated: Mature for mental illness themes and implied attempted suicide.
Why are you never real?
Collin does not exist.
If I say it enough times, I can make myself believe it. I can make myself believe this person I’ve created in my mind does not exist and never will, he is simply a character, a companion, a manifestation of everything I want and have never wanted in a partner.
He is not real.
The first time I ever wrote about Collin was simply to create a scenario in which I am unconditionally loved and cherished in a way I never have been and am fearful that I never will be: the ideal man, the perfect companion, the words on paper.
The story was short, a tiny scene in which we meet cutely and proceed to do life together as if we were always destined to be. Something to get the juices flowing. He has no true face. It changes every so often as does his body and his skin. He looks like a man in every vision, every dream, and every thought I’ve had about him but I can never see a face.
The first time I dreamt of Collin, I could hear his voice, clear as day, right in my ear as my mind drifted into slumber with thoughts of the scenario. I could smell his cologne and feel his hand in my mind as we shook, but I woke up alone.
I wrote about him again. Planning out a scene for another story led me down a path of five thousand words of us falling in love. I knew his parents and his siblings. I knew he was the oldest just like me, always quiet and out of the way. He got good grades, played sports, and went to school for engineering. He was smart and talented and he liked me in a way no one had before.
I found myself talking to him when I was alone.
“What do you think?” I asked him while trying to choose between salmon and chicken for dinner.
“Salmon, you ate chicken all last week.” He says back. I whip my head around and find the kitchen empty save for me.
My motivation at the gym comes from the “You got this Princess” that I can hear in my head.
Princess.
My favorite nickname. The name he calls me in the stories I write about us. He calls me princess and I call him babe just to see that pretty smile spread across his face.
His eyes are brown. He’s got long lashes, plump lips, and some facial hair, and in every dream and thought I’ve had, he has dimples.
He’s not real.
It’s been three months since I first thought about him; a cure to the loneliness I haven’t let myself feel in years and I wrap myself in him during the day and night without shame.
As I sit in a coffee shop, pouring over my homework one day and trying not to fall asleep, the door opens. There’s a man, with brown skin, tall with glasses and facial hair.
Collin. My brain whispers.
A girl follows him, he holds his hand out for her and I look back at my screen, pushing down the feeling of disappointment in my chest.
On hard days when I hide in the bathroom of my job with my eyes shut to hold back the tears, I feel warm arms around my waist, the ghost of lips on my neck and I let myself relax into a touch that doesn’t exist, a comfort that I made up.
It feels so nice.
When the air is cold at night, I feel strong hands cuddling me, soft kisses pressed to my cheek, sweet nothings whispered deeply in my ear as I drift off to sleep and it’s enough, it’s like he’s there.
By month five, I have enough material to write a book about our love. The small scenes turn into long ones. We drift and exist in different universes and ideas. Some days, he’s a prince and I’m the woman in charge of his publicity. On other days he’s a mob boss and I’m the stripper he pays to spend time with him. We fall in love in every universe, find each other in every way and it’s beautiful, it’s not real but I don’t think about that anymore, I only think about him, about us.
We eloped in a small city in Italy, his mom adores me and teaches me to bake, his siblings always want to play uno with me, and all of his friends say I'm perfect for him.
He listens to me. I talk about my work with no one because no one seems to care but Collin does. He listens, offers feedback and compliments, and then drowns me in kisses that I can feel. He accompanies me to events, wearing sunglasses so he doesn’t take any attention away from me. He talks about me in ways no one has before; he’s proud, he feels honored, and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else with anyone else. I smile, he smiles back and I can feel his hand intertwined with mine; it fits perfectly.
He runs a business, a company, I write and make his house look nice. We walk our dog, cook big meals on Sundays, and have date night every Wednesday.
And then I wake up, alone and confused.
Why are you never real, whenever you appear?
By month 8 I felt confused, lost even. I’m doing everything right. I’ve written over 100 stories about him and he’s not here yet.
Every time I blink I can see him, I can hear his voice in my ear when I’m upset, I can feel his hands on my skin deep in the night under the covers, I can feel him when he enters me, I don’t understand.
I know he’s out there, I know he exists, we’ve lived and loved in other places and other times, he’s real, he has to be.
I don’t date, I don’t go out, I don’t let anyone touch me because he’s out there and I’m waiting for him, he wants that.
I tell this to the therapist sitting in front of me. She’s confused, she thinks I’m crazy.
“He’s not real dear; he never was.”
“He is real.”
She shakes her head, chuckling a bit as if I’m insane.
She slides several pieces of paper in front of me, telling me to look.
These are my stories of us, Collin and I, our life together. Our house with 5 bedrooms that he and his father built us. Our two children, one named after him, the other after me. Our vows, our matching tattoos, our joint interview questions, it’s all here.
“What’s your point?” I ask her.
“Everything you see here is made up.”
I shake my head, she doesn’t get it.
“Collin does not exist.”
“Yes, he does.” I don’t know why I’m here. My mother says she was worried, she caught me talking to him, more times than I’d like but I don’t know why I need this.
“I know him, he exists and just because he started on paper doesn’t mean anything. We exist everywhere, none of what I wrote is made up. It’s happened in this lifetime and others.
She looks at me, figuring out there is no saving me, there is no convincing me, I know better than her and her fancy degree.
“She’s convinced herself that he’s real. That he will find her and they’ll be in love. The dreams, the writings, are all a sign of mental illness.” She tells my mother.
I dream about him that night, of our life together.
“Everyone tells me you aren’t real.” I admitted to him over dinner.
He shakes his head. “I’m not.”
I frown. “Yes, you are. You have to be, you’re my perfect person.”
“I am, I am your perfect person, a person that you created. The love and care I show you, it’s all written by you, orchestrated by you, I don’t have any original thoughts.”
No.
“But I can feel you, you touch me all the time.”
He chuckles.
“That’s not me, that’s you.”
I shake awake, my own arm around my waist, my own voice in my head, the bed empty.
He’s real.
He’s here.
I look at the papers on my bed; dreams, ideas, scenarios, stories. All made up.
No.
“You’re a writer. You create stories and people all the time.”
No.
“It’s okay that you created someone to love you.”
No.
“It will happen in real life.”
NO.
“Shhh, I’m going to get the nurse.” I blink up at the white ceiling. My stomach hurts from the pumping, my eyes sting from the bright lights, and an officer is watching me at all times to make sure I don’t do it again. I scared everyone, even myself.
I didn’t dream about him that night.
I left the hospital a week later, good as new.
I dream of him that night. He kisses me and tells me he loves me, he holds me as I sleep, whispering in my ear praise and encouragement. He’s happy I didn’t die, he loves me too much.
He’s not real.
