He wasn't real.

He wasn't real, and you knew that. He was simply a figment of your imagination — the consequence of forgetting your medication. You knew this, yet you couldn't help but feel like you could reach out and touch him, hold his hand in yours.

He wasn't real.

He was a fragment of your psyche, a result of your own self-loathing and desire to be wanted, to be loved.

You were broken, and this man was simply your own mind's creation — an attempt at fixing yourself.

He wasn't real, but he could be, a voice inside you said. He could be yours.

"I'm not going anywhere."

That's what the man had said as he looked you in the eye and held his hand out to you, waiting for you to grab it.