(I’m still developing my writing style, so please mind any awkwardness, and give any feedback you find suits!)

(Be as critical as needed. I’m seeking improvement!)

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PAST:

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“Every dream, every nightmare, every desire, every wish-upon-a-star is a creation. There’s a misconception that imaginary friends are a force of a child’s own will. Which isn’t entirely wrong, but there’s so many variables to it, so it’s not as simple and straightforward as people believe it to be.”

This is what Cory told me. It was the last thing I heard from it before it began to fade away.

“When a child forgets about an imaginary friend. We tend to die from their memories, and in turn, we die as a whole.”

It had said with a grimace on its face as it held up its almost invisible paw.

“So. You’re going to..”

“Go?” Cory cut me off, and I nodded to confirm. “I’ve had my time with Wynter. It’s your turn now.”

My face fell. “Wait! But there’s so much you still need to teach me! I don’t know how to deal with Wynter! I need your help!” I grabbed Cory’s paws, squeezing them in desperation as to see it stay. My desperations were all but none to the invisible force causing my mentor pull from reality.

“A frown is never a good look on a clown. Show me a smile.” Cory insisted, giving me a small grin. I chuckled weakly at that, my expression lifting just barely. “Take good care of Wynter. Okay?”

And just like that. It was gone.

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3 YEARS PASS:

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Wynter’s sobs loudly echoed in his little yellow room. He was on his little loft bed, burying his face into the fluffy pillow. Out of frustration and confused sadness, he had ripped the items off the desk and shelves, spewing pictures and books, as well as toys all over the floor. I watched him with guilt drenching my very being.

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_Why wasn’t I comforting him? Why was I just standing here, frozen in shock? Why can’t I go do my job?!_

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Eventually, I managed to force myself over to his bed. I easily stood to the top, my shoulders to the bars on the side. Wynter had scratched into the dark wood with a butter knife as a way to get the negative emotions out of him and onto a surface.

“Hey, kiddo.” I said gently, lowering my voice to try to calm the screaming child down. Wynter pulled his face from his pillow and stared at me. His amber eyes were red and puffy from bawling his eyes out. “Are you okay? Do you want a hug?”

Wynter’s eyes seemed glazed over with tears. They stared dead into space, but he nodded softly, scooting over to the ladder of his bed, and climbing into my arms. I hugged that kid for what felt like hours, but what lasted only ten minutes. Wynter had resorted to fidgeting with the bells on my left wrist, the light tinkling of the golden objects seemed to calm him down. He suddenly stopped, and now gripped my hand intensely.

“Why isn’t Papa coming back?”

The following quiet was uncomfortable as my mind raced to determine an explanation. How do you explain to a child that their father is dead? The kid must’ve noticed my worried expression, as he squeezed me tighter.

“I don’t understand this. Why can’t he just come back, like after work is over?” Wynter furrowed his brow in confusion. I eventually had a light bulb.

“Think of it like a vacation. You’ll see him again, you just have to be patient.” I said with as calm as a tone as I could muster. Wynter nodded slowly, before pulling my arm closer to him. All that crying had caused drowsiness to wash over him.

I waited until the child was dead asleep, and only then did I stand up and carry the child back into his bed. I covered him with his big fluffy blanket, (which, I’ll admit, I was jealous of. Who wouldn’t want a fluffy blanket?)

For now, Wynter would believe my half-truth answer. And that relieved me.