Julie was everything I wasn't. I made her that way. She was smart and sporty. Pretty and popular. But not so popular she was snobby. She still liked me best. She always...She...
I'm sorry. This is...
This is very hard.

My parents moved when I was four. Right before I started school. I didn't have many friends. Even then I wasn't good at talking to people. Then we moved, I was back at zero. Then school started and I stayed at zero. There was no one to hang out with on the playground. No one to invite over for slumber parties.
So I made Julie.
She was always there when I got home. To talk to. Play games with. She had long brown hair--chestnut, not mousey like mine. An elfin face. I didn't know that word then, but it's what she was. Not quite human. Or a little more than human. Better than human.
My parents thought I was a little old for an imaginary friend, but they both worked and with Julie around I stopped asking them for a baby sister, so...

For years, Julie was everything to me. I told her all my secrets. When my parents divorced, I cried on her shoulder and she told me it would be okay.
In middle school, I started to make friends. Sort of. I didn't get better at it, it's just that there were more of us--more awkward kids who didn't fit in. We glommed together into sort-of friendships. I went out with them, invited them over. But I never told them secrets. Not like I told Julie.

I don't know when it happened exactly. Maybe when I was out at the movies. Or at a football game, marching across the field with my clarinet. One day when I got home, Julie was gone.
I never noticed.
I never even remembered she existed. I grew up. High school was...okay. I learned I liked English and was a pretty good writer. I lost my virginity to Billy Preston after junior prom. I decided I was going to move to New York City and start my life for real.
So I did.
And I didn't.
I tried to get into advertising. Marketing. Nothing. I started temping. Moving from office to office, I didn't make friends. My evenings were spent alone in the tiniest of apartments.
I joined a dating site. A few dates. Some of them led places. Second dates. Bedrooms. One or two were good lovers. None were good friends. Before I knew it, years had passed. One day--one cold, dark December day--when the train took forever and the slush overflowed into my boots, I came home. I was dreading it. Another night alone. I walked into my apartment, and there she was, sitting cross-legged on my bed. Like she'd never left.
She stood to greet me.
She'd grown up, too. Her hair was still long, thick, chestnut. Her face still had those delicate, sharp edges. She was just a little taller than me. Graceful where I was clumsy. Long, strong legs, toned arms. Next to her I was gray and flabby. I didn't care. She took my hand and we sat on the bed and talked. I spilled two decades of secrets into her open ears. When I was finished, she began to undress. Then to undress me.
She knew exactly what to do. I didn't feel awkward or fumbling. When I didn't know where to put my hands or my legs or my mouth, she guided me. She showed me what to do, how fast and how hard and how long.
When it was over, I cried. It was just...I didn't know it could be like that. I never imagined. After that, she was there whenever I came home. Waiting. Eventually, we went out. Walking on the street. Talking. We went to the movies together. Restaurants. I ordered food that she never ate. Nobody thought it was that strange. This is New York.
When we went home, I took her to bed. Or she took me. The days were brighter. Shorter. I felt less gray, less flabby.
People at work started smiling at me. Saying hello. Asking my name. One marketing firm I was temping at asked if I would stay on. Coworkers asked me out after work. I went to bars and talked and laughed. I made brunch plans. Julie and I spent less and less time together. This guy at work. Brian. He asked me out on a date. I went. We had a really good time. When we went back to my place, the apartment was empty. I didn't think anything of it. Of course it's empty. I live alone.
I'd forgotten.
Again.
Brian spent the night. He spent a lot of nights. He made me happy. He asked me to marry him and I said yes. Our coworkers threw us a party. They were so excited for us. We talked about kids. My Mom came to New York to meet him. I bought a dress. The wedding is next week. Was next week.

I was walking out of the florist's. I'd just given them the deposit on the flowers for the wedding. And I saw her. Across the street, walking toward Union Square. Chestnut hair down to the small of her back. Long, strong legs and that walk I would recognize anywhere. I ran after her. I screamed her name.
Julie! JULIE!
But she was gone. Or...or it was never her. But I remembered. The way we laughed. The way we touched. The way she listened so deeply.
How could I have forgotten her again?
How could I do that? What kind of friend does that?

Maybe that's how it's meant to be. Maybe somewhere down the line I'll need her again and she'll be there. Maybe we'll be two little old ladies sitting on a stoop together.

The thing is...I can't wait. I don't want to wait two decades. Or four.
I don't want to wait.
I went home and told Brian the wedding was off. He asked what he'd done and I said nothing. I was just in love with somebody else. I quit my job. Quit my friends. Went back to temping. Stopped going out. These days, I just go back to my apartment. Each time I open the door, I hold my breath and listen.