There was a fraction of a moment when I understood the amazing thirst I have for an individual that doesn't exist in my life. Looking back, it all started as a low-key joke, born of my own anguish and willingness to damage myself by addressing my entire existence to someone. THAT PERSON.

In reality, I always sit alone at the table, but I wrote "Dear Allison" as a way of addressing my lack of ladylike energy in my daily life. In my grief, I became increasingly eager to address those pages to Allison, until these dreams made their way into my late nights, giving Allison a face, a body, wishes, qualities and me.

Night after night, I dreamt about our story. Day after day, I would transform my adventures into letters to a Lover that doesn’t exist. After falling asleep, I wake to find myself transported right to the only human I have, the only friend I could talk to. Most of the time she would ask different things about what was I writing to her in my journal, so the coherence of the story was as genuine as possible as it could get.

For a writer, this is cocaine. Eventually, you're dependent. Not with a friend, partner or being, but with an ideal. In this vast forest full of trees, how come was I the one who grew in the middle of a plain?

When I witnessed my math colleagues leaving the school together, laughing and listening to music, there was this question that immediately popped in my head: “What am I doing?”. I remembered what happened a day before as the cruel reality of loneliness punched me. In the complete darkness, surrounded by misunderstanding, at the 4th period (chemistry) inspiration hit me, so I tore a piece of paper and let my sentiments flow.

Later that night, I knew I would meet her in my rest. So I took with me the note I composed for my obsession and put it in her pocket just before she returned home after our late pumpkin spice latte date.

“I love you so much,” said the trembling voice on the other end of the line. “So, are you already home?” gladly, realizing I made my better half joyful.

But opening my eyes is never easy, especially in conditions such as this. Who knows what it could’ve been if she was really real. I think the reason I feel the most reinvigorated in this part of the year is because the weather is like me, in its way. The sadness, these dark nights and long storms, the way everything dies makes me feel understood.

When I got home, I sat down and penned the final page, which served as my farewell, but this time not to her, but to myself.

“Dear diary,

All the violins are vibrating their melodies into my dramatic story, destroying my heart, my soul, and my mind. This age shouldn't be the period of joy, yet the one for slip-ups, tears and examples. I got it bad, I GOT IT SO BAD. Maybe the best mistake I ever made was her.

How can you get back on your feet after a breakup like this?! I've never heard of somebody with a healthy mindset doing something like this. Yes, it's childish, foolish, and cruel, but I don't have anyone...

No matter how much I think Allison SHOULD EXIST, it's better for her to just pass on. This turned into a dependence and my uneasiness doesn't appear to improve, yet rather got worse. This is not how life needs to be lived. I never had a friend, behind that STUPID notebook which became the placeholder of my stories.

Does anyone know? I think this is a question that needs to be answered.

Obviously, I don't have any friends, so that path is clear. But in order to keep the secret from my family, I had to hide my journal in the best way possible.

All things considered, as a previous future author, I should say this is the beginning to a pain that is a lot greater than me. From today, I'll do my best to switch things up, to act instead of talk, to stop imagine, and to speak up for myself, not by myself. My truth will be as pure as her and my life will be lived as good as possible.

   Thank you, Allison, for being here,
   Thank you, my love, for loving me,
   Thank you, my friend, for making me feel important.”

My breath got heavier and heavier with each moment. With tears running down my face, I’ve laid over the table to grab the dark pencil with blue ink that was bought with the thought of sharing my day-to-day stories.

The notebook is now open, making my chest weighty and my hands soft. “You can’t do this! You need to stop!” yelled my inner self, but my heart KNEW that this was for the best.

And so, I find the courage in me hidden behind the wish to have a friend, behind all the moments when I wanted to go out, but I had to go home, behind the tears and shame from the past 16 years, behind her…, and gave myself the freedom I deserve.

"Goodbye, Allison" were the last two words I wanted to write.