You don’t need me anymore, I think without saying it aloud. She wouldn’t be able to hear me even if I did say it.

I’m so proud of her. She’s grown so much. She went from a shy, mousy little girl who needed to invent her own friends, to a confident seven year old, who raises her voice and speaks to so many real friends.

I can feel myself fading away, but I smile. This means she’s okay. She can do it all on her own now.

While I fade from existence, I’m doing what I love: looking at her. I gaze at her smile and that bright look in her eye…and those little hands that used to hold mine…and her whole beautiful being…

Goodbye, Ruby. I’m proud to have been yours.

~~~

Something is wrong.

I open my eyes. That’s a warning sign right there, because I should not have eyes. I should not have anything.

And then I see Ruby.

Oh, my little girl.

She’s curled up on her bed with her knees against her chest and she’s crying, her whole body trembling. She hasn’t cried like this in a very, very long time.

She’s not little anymore. She may even be an adult, by now. I can’t tell exactly, she’s curled up so tightly, but she must be at least eighteen. Her wallet and keys are splayed onto the night table she’s had since she was five. There are papers and books, thick ones that I never would have understood when I last existed.

Her head lifts up and her wide, watery eyes emerge and look into mine. And I see the girl who brought me into existence in the first place, the little child who was scared of the dark and who trembled at doctor’s appointments. The sweet little girl with the vivid imagination who needed a little extra help to be brave.

I understand why I’m here. She needs me again.

I don’t know exactly what I am, but I am soft and cozy and I have arms for hugging. I come closer and sit beside her on the bed. She doesn’t speak, but she cries harder and leans against me. I wrap my arms around her and speak to her.

“What’s wrong, Ruby?”

She spoke to me in just her thoughts when she was little. She does this again now, but her thoughts have changed tremendously. They are tumultuous and angry and loud, louder than she ever was, even when she turned seven.

She thinks to me about all the awful things that have come with growing up. Breakups and friends leaving and classes that are too hard. Going to doctor’s appointments all by herself and questioning her religion and things that she never ever thought of when she first thought me up.

And I’m so angry with myself for being so scared, she thinks to me. Why am I so scared all the time? It didn’t used to be this way. I thought I was doing so well. I thought I didn’t need you anymore. Nobody else cries like this.

I put my hand on her head, the way I did when she was small. “That’s not true,” I say. “You’re grown up now. But everything is changing all at once. You don’t have to be brave and strong all the time.”

I pause for a moment and consider everything while she cries. Eventually I softly say, “I will stay here as long as you want me to. You’re right, you don’t need me anymore. But I will be here when you want me.”

This arrangement seems to calm her a bit. I sit with her until she has cried herself out, and then she becomes drowsy and lies down. She can tuck herself in now, but I sit with her until she falls asleep anyway. Only then do I fade out again.

I come back when she wants me, just as I said. Instead of playing games and inventing stories, nowadays I listen to her thoughts and hold her and tell her all the good things about her. I watch TV with her at midnight and sit with her when she’s doing work at her dining room table.

I don’t know how long I will exist, but that’s never mattered to me. It’s always been about Ruby. And as long as she wants me there to remind her of who she is, I will be there.