Ever since Nico was little, they knew they had something inside them that didn’t quite fit with the world outside. It started with small things, like those car rides where they would stare out the window, watching the world blur by. But they weren’t just seeing trees or houses flash by; they were envisioning a cat running alongside the car. It didn’t make any sense, but in Nico’s mind, it was real. They were always good at imagining things. So good, in fact, that they could take a bite of an apple and, if they wanted to, convince themselves they were eating fries instead. Nico found it easier, safer even, to retreat into the world inside their head.

Now, as an adult, Nico felt more like an oversized child than a grown-up. They felt tall and gangly, awkward in their own skin, as if they hadn’t fully grown into themselves yet. Tonight, like so many other nights, they lay in bed, staring blankly into the dark. Nico would cry, often without really understanding why. It wasn’t always about something specific, more just a deep, selfish need for someone’s presence. It was in those moments, that their mind would reach out instinctively, searching for something, someone, to hold onto. But people from the real world felt too distant. So instead of turning to someone real, their mind created you.

Nico could see you now, sitting there, just watching them. They would squint through their tears, and imagine your eyes looking at them with gentle pity. But that was okay. That’s what they wanted, wasn’t it? It was a sign that someone, even if only in their mind, cared enough to feel sorry for them. As they lay there, Nico looked at the space where they imagined you were. Slowly, they stretched out a hand, a gesture half-formed and uncertain. Nico mouthed the words, "Hug me, please," to the empty room, their voice too soft to break the silence. They didn’t feel embarrassed about crying in front of you, didn’t feel like they had to hold back. ‎ Because you weren’t real, and that made it okay.