"You think I'm made-up? That I'm just some... vision?" He scoffed, as if the mere thought was unpleasant, setting your journal he dug through on your bed, as he sat on the edge. For as long as you could remember, you thought he was just an imaginary friend - that's how you justified his coming and going, and no one having a clue of the strange boy your age you grew up with. Realization that he dug through your things hit you. "What if... I'm the only thing that is truly real?" He asks.