She always loved the woods

The sun light filtered through bright green leaves

The soft carpet made of grass

That her mom could never force her to vacuum.

She saw him there.

Her imaginary friend.

Is it still called an imaginary friend

When you're eighteen?

'I've gone insane,'

she says,

laying on the ground

finding patterns in tree branches.

'Because you can see me?'

he'd ask, laughing

sitting on top of a boulder

by the creek.

'That's not a good reason for going insane.'

'I'm talking to a figment of my imagination,'

she says, frowning.

'That isn't normal.'

'Who wants to be normal?'

he says, smiling a too perfect smile

framed by too perfect skin

and too perfect blue eyes.

'Don't be cliche,'

she says, rolling boring brown eyes

surrounded by blemished skin

complimenting straw colored hair

'I hate cliches.'

'I come from your imagination,'

he says, smirking,

light making his blonde hair glitter.

'I'm only cliche because you want me to be.'

She hadn't thought of him

In five years

And had no idea why she was now.

But for some reason

The man who had just ordered coffee from her

At the little cafe she worked at

Made her think of him

And his too perfect words.

So biting her lip

And handing him his drink

She quietly asked

'Do you like cliches?'