I was probably eight years old when I first began to suspect that Sara had invented me. I'd never had any reason to question my existence before.

I knew it was a bit rude that no one ever talked to me. They only talked to Sara. But I just figured that was a personality thing. You know, she's the talkative approachable one. I'm the shy quiet one.

Then it came to me that Sara had parents, teachers, classmates, but I didn't have any of my own. I was Sara's best friend. That part of my identity was rock solid still. But was I not also someone's daughter, someone's student, or any kind of someone without Sara?

I was too afraid to voice my suspicions to her. Would I lose the only friend I'd ever known? If I confronted her and was right, would she imagine me out of existence as easily as she'd willed me into being? So I kept it to myself and continued with our normal routine.

I wake up when Sara wakes up. I fall asleep when Sara falls asleep. I'm not sure what happens to me when we close our eyes and consciousness fades away. I don't dream or whatever like she does. When she tells me her fanciful or frightening stories in the morning, I just nod and listen though I can't relate.

I brush my teeth when Sara brushes hers. My clothes are in Sara's closet. I compliment her on whatever outfit we've chosen for her to wear, but then we sort of forget to pick or comment on mine together. All of a sudden, I'm just wearing it and neither she nor I seem to care what color it is or how it sits on my body. I know how I'd describe Sara's body if you were to ask me, but though I've stood in front of the mirror beside her day in and day out for years now, I'm a little bit fuzzy on what to tell you about me.

It makes sense that we focus on her of course. Sara wants to look nice so other people might admire, envy, or even develop a crush on her, but who is there for me to impress besides Sara? Hers is the only approval I've ever had in mind and for a long time, she gave it to me freely. As we prepare to enter middle school, though, I can feel myself registering smaller and smaller on her scale of importance. My silent concerns morph into burning resentment. Even if she'd insult me, it might be better. But it's worse. She doesn't really have any opinion of me at all anymore.

My desperation and hurt seep into our every interaction. I overdo it, trying to recreate the magic of our past. I tug at her nostalgia too hard and too often until the words, remember when, are enough to spark her now default mode of impatience. I see the disinterest and distance in her eyes and I can't understand my inability to make her care again. On one particularly painful evening spent attempting and failing to earn her laughter—my favorite sound in the world—I look down at my hands and notice the faded translucent quality to the left one. From the wrist down, it looks and feels impermanent. I flex my fingers or my mind tries to, but nothing happens.

Is it murder if you are erased by your own creator? What else should I call it?

If you're mad, I wish you'd just tell me, I say.

I'm not mad, she says.

What happened to us? I ask her this over and over. Waiting for a new answer.

I don't know. You're different, she tells me. Her tone becomes so bored by the hundredth time she has to say it and I feel a twinge of guilt for the listless affect she now brings with her everywhere she goes. To the kitchen table with her parents, to the classroom, to time spent with her new friends.

Sara, you're different, they all start to tell her.

She seems depressed, the school counselor alerts her parents. Perhaps schedule a visit to a child psychologist.

Sara has never told anyone about me before, so I don't expect talking to this adult will be any different. But after a few agonizing sessions, Sara points at me. She's here, she says. She's always here.

To watch her reveal me to this stranger is somehow both a betrayal and relief.

I think it's time to let her go, the doctor says. I don't think you need her anymore.

I'm not entirely sure which one of us she's talking to.

Sara closes her eyes and nods. As I look down to see my own torso vanishing, I know that it's me who is no longer needed. I've been right all along. I'm not imagining it. Without Sara, I'm not a someone.

As I wait to disappear, float, dissolve or however it works, into vapor or nothingness, I find I'm no longer in the office. But I'm not gone either. No, I'm in a field. The cornfield behind Sara's house that we loved to run around in together, chasing lightning bugs with our mason jars at the ready. It was our favorite place and activity until I told her I didn't think we should do it anymore. If I were a lightning bug, I wouldn't like it, I said. Trapped and slamming around against the insides of a cute little jar, my wings beating in a panicked frenzy. I worried she'd be mad, but she agreed with me. From then on, we ran around with the lightning bugs, not after them.

So maybe I won't go just yet. Maybe I'll stay here for a while in case she does ever need me again. Glowing bright and flying at her side.