Notebook Tales

| Eleven |

She was five when we became friends. Her words are the first thing I can remember: "would you like to sit here?" After that we were inseparable.

When she was six, we went to school. She met new friends, but I was the one she shared her toys and snacks with.

At age eight we talked more than ever. Her dog had died and she needed someone to comfort her. I had never had a dog, but I understood her anyway. In a sense, I knew her better than she did.

She joined a soccer team when she was nine, and I never missed a game or a practice. When she scraped a knee or scored a goal, I was there.

She was ten when I first noticed the changes. She was a child who realized they were growing up, and we played less than before.

She was eleven and our friendship was fading. She had outgrown me. Or rather, I hadn't been able to grow with her.

She turned twelve and I was gone.

Sometimes when kids grow up, they stop using their imagination, because they think it's childish. Some don't even realize what's happening. Because you never get a warning when you grow up. And when you're a kid's imaginary friend, you never get a warning when they leave you.

That was what happened to her. She woke up one day and forgot to bring me back.

The last time I saw her, she was eighteen. She packed up her memories, hugged me goodbye, and left for college. But that was okay. Because that meant she hadn't forgotten me.