Page 23 of The Imaginary Friend's Obsession

“I remember now,” I say softly, looking through the glass. “I was rarely allowed to leave home when I was a child. Dorian was my only friend.”

“What about school?” Ezra asks.

I shake my head. “They insisted on homeschooling me. They said it was because public school wasn’t good enough.” My lips tilt. They always thought they were too good for Ash Valley, as if they hadn’t moved there to escape my father’s debts and reputation. “Though mostly, I think it was in case anyone noticed the bruises.” I look down at my fingers again, biting my lip. “Dorian was my only escape. The only good thing about life in that house.”

I think again of my father’s thunderous face in my memory. After seven years, I had almost managed to forget what he looked like, but now it’s as bright as a beacon in my mind.

“I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but…” I fold my arms over my chest, hugging myself, remembering how Dorian would hold me like this while I cried. How he’d cry with me, agonized that he couldn’t help.

“People should be remembered as they were,” Ezra says. “Nothing more and nothing less.”

“I agree,” I say, my voice quavering as another tear slips free. “So why do I remember so little about Dorian?”

I stare into the cell as if it will give me answers, but they don’t appear, and neither does Dorian.

* * *

When I’m standing in the kitchen making tea that night, absently rubbing my crooked pinky again, I suddenly remember a pretend tea party I had with Dorian, his gloved hand holding the porcelain cup so carefully. Pinky out, of course, because we were being fancy.

As I climb the stairs to my bedroom, I remember him walking backward in front of me, showing me where to put my socked feet so the steps wouldn’t creak and wake my parents.

The more memories trickle in, the more questions I have. How could I have forgotten all of this? Dorian was my best friend, my only friend. How is it possible I convinced myself, even for a second, that he wasn’t real?

Remembering the happy days of our childhood together also makes my day-to-day existence feel even lonelier. Iachefor Dorian. Sometimes I can barely stand it. I curl up in bed with my hands clutching my stomach, his absence like a physical pain.

And I am still no closer to remembering the most important thing of all: what happened on that fateful night.

Even when I’m in the observation room next to his cell, he feels so far away. It’s painful, to be so close but unable to see him or talk to him. This would be so much easier if he were here to talk to me…and it frightens me that he must still be so weak that he cannot. Is he still on the verge of fading? Ezra seems certain that our progress with my memories will help him, but Dorian is so far from what I remember him to be. I never thought of him as something as insubstantial as aghost. In my memories, he was always present and solid and playful.

Yet…he was also shy.

* * *

“Do you think I could talk to him alone today?” I ask the next morning in the observation room.

Ezra hesitates. “I really shouldn’t…”

“Just through the glass, I mean,” I say. “I’m worried he’s hiding because you’re here. I’ve always been the only one who could see him, and…” I don’t want to resort to begging, but the tremble in my voice betrays my desperation. “I really just want some sign that any of this is working. How are we supposed to know we’re on the right track?”

Ezra shifts his weight from foot to foot, glancing at me and away again. “I can give you five minutes.”

I can only stare, stunned into silence. Then I whisper, “Thank you.”

I wait until the door shuts behind him and then rush up to the window and press my palm against it, fingers splayed wide. “Dorian,” I say through the intercom. “It’s me. It’s Daisy. Just Daisy. Please, talk to me.”

I wait, pulse pounding in anticipation. But nothing happens.

“Dorian, I— I need you to help me. Show me what to do. Show me what I’m missing.” I only realize I’m crying when the tears blur my vision. I wipe them away. “Why are you hiding from me?” I ask. “Why can’t I remember anything?”

Still nothing. I choke back a sob and step back from the glass.

The moment I do, Dorian flickers into view on the other side. Tall and masked and suited. But his image is faded, blurry, weak in a way that drives a spike of worry through my chest. He presses two of his hands to his heart, as if feeling the same pain. His dark eyes are unreadable.

I gasp and lurch toward the glass, one hand outstretched. As I step forward, he steps back—with a slight delay, a stuttered awkwardness in his movements, like we’re separated by time in addition to space.

I stop, fingers slowly curling inward, and lower my hand. The yearning to be with him is like a chain lodged in my chest and pulling me toward him—but I resist it. His aversion is clear, though I don’t understand why. I step back, and Dorian moves closer to the window again.

“Why?” I whisper. I keep stepping back; he keeps stepping forward, until he’s the one pressed against the glass. “Why are you doing this? Are you angry with me for abandoning you?”

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