I have a friend named Frank. He has curly black hair, dimples in his cheeks, and he loves to play. Now, there’s nothing wrong with having a friend like Frank, except that he is imaginary, and I am twenty-six years old.

We met on a family holiday in Mexico. I was five years old, paddling alone in the sea, when he popped up and asked if I wanted to play. “Sure!” I replied. My mom and dad sat on the beach arguing about which way to lay the picnic blanket, while Frank and I jumped waves and hunted for crabs.

Back at home, I drew a picture of Frank and showed it to my mom. “That’s lovely, Omar,” she said. “Frank looks like a great friend.” I smiled, proud of my new playmate.

From that day onwards, Frank came everywhere with me. I made space for him at the dinner table and in the car. Dad said it was odd, though, even back then. Mom said it was perfectly healthy, proof of my blossoming imagination. Mom understood a lot about children.

But she didn’t understand Frank.

As I got older, Frank still came to play. He grew as I did, and at eleven years old, we still had a lot in common. Mom got twitchy, though. She would find us playing together and ask, “How about playing with some real friends, Omar?” Dad found us playing pirates together and said it was, “Nonsense.” I flashed a look at Frank, but he told me to ignore him.

At sixteen years old, Frank was still hanging around, sitting with me on the bus to school and talking about girls. I had one school friend called Soren, and I told him about Frank. “Everyone is different, Omar,” he said, “and that’s okay.” I wasn’t so sure. My classmates picked on me and called me a weirdo. I decided to ask Frank to leave. “It’s been a blast!” I said, “but I’m getting a bit old for this.” Frank didn’t take too kindly to that. He said that true friends stick together forever. How did I not know that? He demanded I ditch Soren. So, I did.

As time went on, I tried to ignore Frank, but he called me names like “Unimaginable idiot” and a “Reality bore.” One day, Mom heard us arguing and sent me to a psychiatrist. Dr. Tino listened as I told him all about Frank and how I wanted rid of him. Dr. Tino drummed his chubby fingers on the desk and said, “Well, he’s imaginary. So…”

“Yes, he’s imaginary,” I snapped, “but you try telling him that!”

Dr. Tino saw ‌I was unhappy and prescribed me pills. Frank wanted to pretend they were sweets and suggested we open a sweetshop. I told him, “I’m too old for this kind of thing!” Dr. Tino suggested therapy. I went, but Frank kept butting in and telling jokes. I couldn’t help but laugh. You know, for all his faults, Frank had an awesome sense of humor!

By nineteen, I’d never had a girlfriend. I mean, I went on a date with a girl named Josie, but Frank didn’t like her. After a single date, he said we’d spent too much time together. Said he was feeling left out. I tried to introduce Frank to Josie, but she blocked my calls. I knew it wasn’t right, but I didn’t know what to do. I swallowed my growing resentment like one of Dr. Tino’s bitter pills.

At twenty-one, I lived on my own. With Frank. We spent our evenings watching old episodes of The Office. Some days, he even came to work with me at Starbucks I must admit, it helped to pass the time.

One evening, I snuck out to the movie theatre for some alone time, but he found me there and shouted, “Make believe murderer!” Everyone stared at me. Us. Even as he settled, there was something in his eyes that told me he’d rather see me in hell than let me go.

A month ago, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. One night, I got into bed while Frank was downstairs. I used my phone to search up “How to get rid of imaginary friends.” I found a website that said I was lonely and stressed. It suggested I should write down my worries. I took a pencil and notebook and wrote ‌my biggest worry.

Frank.

The website offered solutions such as plenty of exercise, a healthy diet and get this, spending time with friends. I tore up the page. Finally, at 2 a.m., I had it! Suddenly, I heard Frank at the foot of the stairs.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Nothing!” I lied.

“Are we going to play now?” asked Frank.

I grabbed my pencil and started to write. In a flash, I’d written Frank into a story. This story. His footsteps grew faint. His voice died away.

I finished the story that night and gave it the title, ‘Frank.’ He lives in it now. Imprinted in the pages, trapped in a notebook.

You know what? I haven’t heard from him since.

Things have been quiet lately. Weirdly quiet. But, guess what? I made a new friend! Her name is Tracy…