I just wish to start this with a short apology: I really never intended on publishing on fictionpress, but whatever gets me out there, right? Besides, I need people I've never known criticizing my work because then I can really grow. I can never remember who said it, but it was said that you find comfort among those you agree with, and growth among those you don't. So, let's hope none of you agree with me (though I really don't think this is my best work) and that I can grow.

This is called Lonely. You know how they said that fiction was ninty percent truth and ten percent lie? This is a perfect example of that saying. What is true are the feelings, and a lot of the history. Please excuse it if you don't like it. And if you would care to drop a few hints whether you like it or not, and a good reason why, I would appreciate it.

Enjoy, if you can.

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I never really felt lonely. I have always been able to stand on my own, to entertain myself without any company, and I took great pride in that ability. I could go several days without calling friends, and I could survive the first few scary weeks of camps when there was no one to talk to. I could handle it, and I never had trouble.

I never had an emotional breakdown. My mental health was perfect, and I never took any form of drug. The furthest I have gone is breathing in secondhand smoke and a few sips of wine for tasting for my writing.

I never had a good reason for what happened besides the reason that I was lonely, and I had an active imagination.

See, it all started freshman year of college. It was my first time away from home for a really long extended period of time, and I had a really difficult time fitting in. For the first time in my life, I actually felt lonely and depressed. I had no friends, and I had no one to share my troubles with.

Some of my e-mails home were very disturbing. I had lost my anchor of reality for a while, and I had seen murder scenes in the areas where a bike was stolen. For some reason, the useless frame and wheel looked like the remaining parts of a once-living body, which because of a terrible criminal was then dead. I had, in my own words, become "out of it" for a while, and after a few weeks, I had adjusted back, and I was back to normal. I still cannot remember much of those two weeks.

But I was back to normal after those two weeks, and I returned to my school work with a renewed fervor with the idea that I'd work the loneliness out of my system, and for a while, it worked. I had no bouts with loneliness, and I kept up with my class work.

Yet there was the feeling of having no one there, of being all alone. I tried to hide it all the time, hiding it in work and in play, but I never really had any friends. I can never make friends easily, and I rarely let people into an inner circle. I am friendly, but I am picky, Mom used to say, and yeah, that is right. I love people, but I am picky about who I want to be my intimate friends. It is not easy to become a part of my confidants, which only added to my pain of being alone.

It was any normal day when I met him, though. I was coming back from my freshman seminar, which I had decided was not as interesting as I had originally thought it would be, and knowing that my Spanish homework would be due the next day, I went into my room intending to do my work there, but Alyssa had friends over. Alyssa had never made a great effort to befriend me, even though we would live in the same room for a year. I had no issue with that, because I would have not let her into my confidence easily, so I cannot blame her. I did not make an effort either, because I always felt like a third wheel.

So Alyssa had her friends over, and they were talking of Ryan and Andy and Matt, the three hottest guys on the floor. If there is anything I hate worse than hearing girls cry over boyfriends that did not deserve them, it is hearing girls talk of boys as if they are objects and toys.

I left that room quickly, heading toward the small study/TV lounge on the floor. The door is always left open, unless the person studying does not want to be disturbed, and I certainly did not want to be disturbed. Checking to make sure I was alone, which included glancing at the couch in front of the television and scanning the two tables for any open notebooks, I closed the door and locked it.

I never really noticed the smell that was in the room then. Only when I look back at my memories now do I see that I actually could smell the Axe when I entered the room. He did not wear it like my friend Kyle did back home, who sprayed it over him like clothing, and stunk up the entire room. He wore it only to emphasize that delicate masculine scent that was him, and it was the best thing I have ever smelled. Maybe that is why I did not notice it, because it was so wonderful.

I sat down at the closest table to the door, opened my Spanish book, and began to read, trying to ignore the annoying squeals that made it through the glass wall that came from my and Alyssa's room.

"Feeling antisocial?"

I have to admit, I jumped. I had not seen anyone, and when I looked up, I could not even speak. I was always a sucker for big brown eyes and longish feathered blond hair, but the two together on this face that bespoke masculinity and a feminine grace was almost too much.

I can still see his face perfectly in my mind. I have never forgotten it, and I do not want to. He was perfection personified, because he was roguish with the aura of a gentleman. His face had a bit of growth that meant he had forgotten to shave that morning, but it was not anything ugly. He had the best forgot-to-shave shadow I have ever seen, and I doubt I will see its like ever again.

What was best was that he smiled this incredible smile. His eyes only narrowed, not crinkled like some people's eyes do, and the smile would make his eyes twinkle though they were really dark and hooded by his eyelids. His lips would pull apart for a short moment to flash teeth before the smile would become gentle and almost pensive. Every time. He had the absolute best smile I have ever or will ever see, and I have the memory of it engraved in my mind, and if I could draw, I would draw the smile just so that if my mind loses it, I would always have the picture.

He had been lying on the couch, the one place I had not looked for people, and he only smiled that smile before he sat up completely and looked at me. "You locked the door. You feeling a bit out of society today?"

"I just didn't want anyone bothering me," I replied dumbly. His eyes widened in shock and he stood up, every movement graceful and delicate.

"Oh, sorry. Don't let me disturb you, then. I'll leave you."

"No, no, please, stay. I came in here. I'm sorry if I woke you." The grin came again, and I could feel my Spanish book closing in my hands.

"Nah, I woke myself. I've actually got a class soon."

Before I could stop myself, I called out, "My name's Ellen."

"I know," he replied shortly. Turning those big brown eyes on me, he let the pensive grin show. "I've been watching you. Can't help it, and I don't want to scare you into thinking I'm a stalker. I've just been… curious, I guess." What could I have said to that? A guy that is my definition of perfection has been watching me, completely curious? About what? But I could not ask him that and risk him being late for class.

"What's your name?" I asked quickly before the door closed.

He paused, eyes narrowed as if in thought, studying my face. "My name is Brian," he said after a long pause. "Nice to talk to you, Ellen."

I watched as perfection walked to the elevators, and I confess, I never did finish my Spanish. He was on my mind constantly, and I could hardly focus enough to walk straight. He was amazing, and his voice was not a gravely sound, or even a smooth flowing voice. It was half way between them, with a husky undercurrent to the silk flow, and the fact that he offered to leave after I had woken him up was perfect gentlemanliness. He was exactly the perfect man that I had always dreamed of.

There was just one problem.

I know now that he was not real.

It took a lot of therapy and drugs to convince me of it, and sometimes I wonder if it was really worth it, to become sane again and to lose Brian Perfect. I mean, because I saw and heard him did not mean that I could harm anyone, right?

Though sometimes I can understand that some people would be in pain if he had ever been more to me than a friend. Imagine explaining to my parents that they would never be able to see their son-in-law because he was always at work or class. It was hard enough that my best friend for seven years never had time to come meet my parents, and when I could hear my phone ringing when it was silent, they questioned how much of a friend to him I was, but they never suspected that he did not exist.

I never suspected that he did not exist. My sickness was classified as a form of schizophrenia, but I only see it as an overactive imagination combined with prolonged loneliness. I was in need of a friend, and my mind made one up for me, and he was the perfect friend. He always showed up when I needed him the most, and he allowed me to be freer, to make more friends during college.

I still remember the day I failed a test in a class I needed to ace for my major. I could hardly keep my face from shivering in sobs during the entire class period, but once I stepped outside, I wandered around the corner and sat on the pavement to cry by myself. Then I heard the footsteps, and when I looked up, it was Brian. I had not spoken to him since the day in the study lounge, but he would smile and wave at me at times when we passed in the halls of the dorm or in the streets of the campus.

He immediately knew that something was wrong, but he did not ask me to explain things to him. He simply knelt down beside me and he hugged me, allowing me to ruin his shirt as I cried. It was exactly what I had needed, someone to hold me and tell me that everything was going to be all right.

He simply rubbed my back, held me as I sobbed. Only after I had cried out the worst of the feelings did he ask me what had happened.

"I don't wanna talk about it," I muttered to him.

"Tell me. It'll help, believe me. Then you can be sure that you're cried out."

Brian was right. I simply told him, word after every struggling word of the test that I had failed and had no chance of redoing. I cried a lot more, but once I had finished telling him my story, my tears could not come anymore. Then I could only accept his warmth and support as he held me.

"Better?" he asked after a while.

"I guess," I replied. "It doesn't solve the fact that I failed that test."

"Failure is a momentary thing," Brian replied. "It's simply a comma in the sentence, not a period. Study hard for the next test, and ask your professor what you did wrong in the test, and how you can improve for the next test. Then you'll be in tip-top shape in no time."

"You should be a philosophy major," I muttered into his shirt, and he only laughed.

"I hate the stuff. Can't stand it. Love thinking aloud, but all the q's and p's really wear me out. Come on, on your feet. You've got a class to go to now. Cold water compress ought to clear up the redness. Goodness, you can get really pretty when you're all red-eyed like that."

I must have looked like a deer in the headlights, because he flashed his grin before he walked away, leaving me standing in the abandoned street with only a memory of warmth on my cheek of his presence.

When I went in for therapy with Sandkim, when someone finally noticed that Brian did not exist, I held onto the memory of that warmth as my proof that he existed. How else could I hear his voice, feel his touch, and feel cold after his warmth had left? For the longest time, I clung to it as my proof. They could not explain that away. There was no way.

Until they demonstrated how powerful the mind was. Or, rather, my mind proved to me the power of itself. I had a dream where a snake bit me, and when I woke up, the pain remained. Terrified, I looked at where the snake had bitten me, and the skin was unbroken.

I explained that to my therapist, and she merely smiled, and then proceeded to rip my last shred of proof from my hands. The mind, apparently, is very powerful. Powerful enough to convince me that this perfect guy was imaginary.

I really have yet to understand it. He never seemed to change over the years, but I doubt that people change a lot physically over the years between eighteen and twenty-five. What confuses me, though, was why my mind would make him up. Why would my subconscious ever feel like I need to make up a perfect guy to have friends? Why would my conscious ever believe this? Why did it last for seven years before anyone found out? Why? That's the one thing that the therapists cannot tell me, the one question I want answered, and they can do nothing about. Why? They cannot tell me anything. They do not know anything, but they can tell me if my friend Brian exists or not.

I heard once that if we sincerely believe that something is true, then it is true. Goodness knows that I sincerely believed that Brian was true. I was wrong, and the therapists that I have heard proclaim that belief said that Brian did not exist.

I know that he does not exist. The number he gave me is not in service, and the house he said he lived at has been abandoned for years. When I typed in his number, it apparently was all in my head. When I checked my phone bill, I never spent the amount of time on the phone as I had thought. I never really was on the phone when I talked to him. But I believed that I was. I believed it with all my mind.

I sincerely believe that those that say that perception is everything are wrong. Completely wrong. I believed, and I was wrong. So they must be too.

Otherwise, Brian would still be here, making me laugh and smile. He let me vent on him. He was the friend that I always wished I had, and now I know that there is no way the perfect friend could ever be human.

I found it out the hard way.

Well, once my last shred of proof that Brian existed was ripped from my hands, I then began the long process of recovery. Recovery, huh. I would never call it that. Who would, when the drugs that are supposed to make the hallucinations go away do not do that? I took the drugs every day, but every day, Brian would show up, trying to talk to me. It was not easy, ignoring him as my therapist demanded. He would try to talk to me, try to ask what he had done wrong to deserve such cruel treatment. And I could never answer him. He would cry and sob as I sat alone in my room, watching him cry himself dry and splotchy, wanting to comfort him and ignore the therapist.

Though everyone said it was for my own good, I eventually had to go on antidepressants. It hurt too much to simply ignore him, and the more I tried to ignore him, the more depressed I became. Brian saw that, I know he did. Why else would he then begin to talk of all the times we had together, watching the ships come in when we were in Duluth, and listening to my favorite bands together and dancing wildly to the music in my bedroom.

It hurt so much that I talked to him again, though my first words to him were, "you're not real."

It startled him, I know, because he took a step back, his big brown eyes wide in horror. I will never forget that expression, and it hurt me deeply. "Not real? Then how can you hear me? I've held you when you cried!" he protested, waving his hands wildly in the air above his head.

"My therapist told me that the mind is a powerful thing. You can make yourself believe so much in something that never existed." My statement made Brian's eyes narrow as his slender hands clenched into fists.

"Your therapist? After all we've gone through together, you base my existence on someone who barely knows you? Sandkim knows diddlysquat," Brian spat, his lips pursing in his fury, but what hurt the most was not that he was angry. It was that he knew my therapist's name, a name I had never mentioned aloud to him.

"How do you know Sandkim is my therapist?" I asked, knowing that my voice cracked and broke as I struggled with tears. This made Brian freeze, his eyes wide, as if he knew he was just a figment of my imagination and had just made a glaring error. This gave me the necessary fury and courage to demand one last thing of him. "See my wind chime up there?" I asked, waving to the small metal bars I kept hanging over my bed. "Hit it for me, will ya?"

Brian's slender fingers stuffed into his pockets stubbornly. "You really think I don't exist, don't you?" Suddenly, his fists left his jeans and pulled on hem of the white t-shirt he always wore. Always. He had never worn anything different. My mind had always dressed him up like that.

His brown eyes told me that he knew he had made a mistake by drawing my attention to it, and he left my room shortly after.

That was the day Brian could no longer touch me. I never felt his touch anymore, and I missed it, but Sandkim said I was making remarkable progress. I was recovering rapidly.

I am not sure when he became just a figure in the crowded streets, ignored and forgotten. But one day I woke up and I realized that he never even came to my room anymore. There used to be a time when he would come every moment that I was alone, coming up with some excuse to leave when someone came near. Yet that day, I found out just how alone I was.

Brian was out of my mind, for good. After seven years, gone.

Sometimes I see him in the streets, think I see his face in a neighboring bus, but his face is always turned away and he never acknowledges me. I really cannot blame him, though, because it was my fault our friendship waned. I chose to acknowledge the fact that he never existed, and sometimes I doubt that fact.

Then I choose to remember the wind chimes. The wind chimes that he had refused to touch, the chimes that still hang over my bed, to remind me. Whenever I think of calling Brian to apologize, whenever I think of ignoring Sandkim's advice, I remember the wind chimes.

And then, I let myself cry. Just a little. Because if I cried a lot, Brian would always be there, whether he was real or not.

Over these years, though, I have come to realize that Brian did exist, in a weird sort of way. He existed in my mind, though he was never real. Then I begin to wonder of existence, what is existence and why I am not just a dream of someone else's, someone else's character in a story, and I think of Descartes and "I think therefore I am" and wonder if Brian ever thought, so did that make his life existence?

Then I would turn over in my bed, look at the clock and promptly shut out those thoughts. After all, it would be near one in the morning before I would even get to Brian's existence story, and I normally would have work the next day. It was too much philosophy for too late at night.

And if I am too tired, Brian just might sit down across from me at lunch some day. Not that I would mind, but I know what his first words will be as I sit alone at my favorite table.

He would say them just to make me feel bad, and to give me the idea that we were starting over, which I cannot do. I can only take so much heartbreak, and having Brian disappear once is too much.

I can still hear his voice at times, whispering on the wind, and I can remember the first time he said those words I know he would say again. The silk poured over gravel sound of his voice whispers the phrase sometimes, carried by the wind, making me jump and look around in fright. I can only take so much heartbreak, and if I ever hear those words again, I know I will break for sure.

"Feeling antisocial?"