There was a spot in my closet that I loved to go. It was hidden, tucked in a corner beneath a low vaulted ceiling. The wall rose just high enough to allow me a place to sit and lean my back. From there, I could look out the small circular window to my family’s back lawn. My journal would sit on my lap. Sometimes I’d write poetry. Other times I just wrote out my thoughts.

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It was my place. It was our place.

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For months, I’d been aware of a presence. I wasn’t sure when it had started. It came and went as it pleased, and on most days, I’d dismiss it and continue scribbling in my notebook. Other days, I’d leave, but I never gave it much thought. I wasn’t hearing moans or creaking pipes. I wasn’t seeing clouds of mist. It was just . . . an awareness.

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That day, the window had been frosted over. Only dim bluish-gray light illuminated the space, and I sensed him. I stopped writing and looked at the wall of clothing before me. Nothing.

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I shook my head and went back to writing. No more than two letters were written before I slowed the stroke of my pen. I was certain someone was reading over my shoulder.

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Finally, I wrote words in the very center of the page, in big capital letters.

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“ARE YOU REAL?”

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Then I sat in silence.

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YES.

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It wasn’t a voice or even a word. It was the idea behind the word, the most basic affirmation. I just knew, and it scared me.

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Quickly, I started to scramble out of my closet, but . . .

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WAIT.

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I turned my head slowly, wondering what I’d see. Perhaps a misty figure, a near-invisible boy – probably close to my age. Of his age, I was almost certain. But again, nothing. The closet was now near dark.

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“What do you want?” I said.

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But speaking out loud made the entire thing seem ridiculous. So I left without waiting for an answer.

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For the next several days, similar things would happen. With each occurrence, I stayed longer and eventually I began addressing the unknown entity in my journal. The entries were always speculative, always written from the awareness that I might merely be talking to myself. It was an exercise I highly enjoyed. I’d jump off the school bus, and run upstairs to my room.

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“Did you miss me?” I’d write. “I missed you.”

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And I’d tell him everything.

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One day, I confided to him my fears that I was going crazy. And he told me – without words – how much he wished he could prove to me that he were real, how he wished he were alive, and how he would not hesitate to ask me out.

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“Wait,” I wrote. “Do you . . .”

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I hesitated in finishing the sentence. Things in the room were still. I felt certain I was putting him on the spot, but finally, I finished writing out the question.

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“Do you like me?”

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Again there was stillness. And then?

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YES. IS THAT OKAY?

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My heart raced. I looked around the room and momentarily lowered my pen. Everything was still and quiet. There wasn’t even a tiny stirring among my clothing. I was alone. If I continued with this, I’d be taking the fantasy to a whole new level.

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I turned back to my journal and shivered. Even if he wasn’t real, I needed to be honest with myself.

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So I wrote, “I wish you were real. I wish I weren’t pretending. If you were real, I wouldn’t hesitate in kissing you.”

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And then it was if he’d scooted closer.

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I’D LIKE THAT. I WISH I COULD KISS YOU TOO.

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I leaned my head back against the wall and stared out my tiny window. My little brother and dad were out building a snowman together. He looked like he was having so much fun, and I realized I’d been sitting in my closet for well over two hours.

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“I have to stop this fantasy,” I said. “I have to stop living inside of my head.”

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And then I left without saying goodbye.

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I stayed away for the next several days, and when I finally returned, his presence was gone. I tried to think nothing of it, but I couldn’t write anymore.

 

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As Valentine’s Day approached, the student government association began selling carnations. I bought a few yellow ones for my friends, a peach one for my mom, and then saw a single blue carnation hidden among the other flowers. I immediately thought of him.

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“What does the blue one symbolize?” I asked the student behind the table.

She gave me a strange look.

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“Blue?” she said. “I don’t think we’re – "

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But I plucked it out of the vase to show her.

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“Oh!” she said, and then looked it up on her phone. “It refers to the unattainable, the impossible. Sorry. Probably not the most – "

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“I’ll take it,” I said.

 

 

When the bus dropped me off at home, I still didn’t know whether I’d go through with it. I left my mom’s carnation on the kitchen table, along with a note of appreciation. Then I headed upstairs slowly, holding the blue carnation to my chest.

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When I got to my room, I stared at the closet door for a long moment. Then I took out my notebook and wrote quickly.

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“I miss you.”

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I tore the sheet out, entered my closet and set both the note and the blue flower on the floorboards. Then I zipped out, taking two steps at a time down the stairwell, and went on a random jog into the cold winter air.

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When I got home, dinner was ready. I didn’t go back up to my room till bedtime. I changed into my PJ’s in the bathroom and turned down the sheets on my bed.

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That’s when I heard a knock on my closet door.

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My heart raced, and I stood frozen for several moments. I grabbed a flashlight and edged to my closet door. I have to admit, as much as I wanted to see a manifestation of him, I also was afraid of it. I turned the knob, pushed the door open and shined the flashlight on my clothing. There was nothing, no face staring back at me, no movement, no sounds.

I pushed aside some of the clothing and stepped in-between the gap. Everything was normal, as it had been before, except . . .

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The stem of the carnation had slipped between a crack in the floorboards. I stepped over to it, bent down, and as I pulled up the flower, something thin started poking it’s way out. Quickly, I dropped the flashlight and gripped the paper between my finger and the stem of the carnation. And slowly, I pulled up a yellowed, black and white photograph.

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My breathing was rapid as I turned it over. I knew what I was expecting. I knew what I wanted. I was almost scared to shine the light on the photo.

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DON’T WORRY. IT’S ME. YOU’LL SEE.

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And then I held my breath. It was a picture of a guy around my age, maybe a year or two older. His hair was light and long, his eyes creepily blurred from movement. He was dressed in a dark suit that didn’t quite fit his long lanky body.

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My bottom hit the floor. I didn’t recognize him. Why didn’t I recognize him?

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“Is this you?” I said out loud.

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THAT PHOTO WAS TAKEN FOUR MONTHS BEFORE THE TUBERCULOSIS.

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A tear slipped down my cheek. I wiped it away just as slipped down my other cheek. I sniffled and put my forehead in my hand. I sensed him near me, sensed him sitting down behind me. Though I couldn’t feel hands on my shoulders, I knew he was trying to touch me.

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“So you’re dead,” I eventually said.

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He hesitated. YES.

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I cried more.

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BUT YOU KNEW THAT.

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I shook my head and sniffled some more.

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“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish I could say this convinced me that you’re real. God, I want it so bad to be real.”

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I put my face in my knees, and then he said my name.

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I CAN’T STAY, he said.

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I lifted my head. “What?”

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MY TIME HERE IS UP. I’M MOVING ON. I JUST THOUGHT I COULD LEAVE YOU WITH SOMETHING.

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“You can’t go.”

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I’M SORRY I COULDN’T TELL YOU SOONER.

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“But – But – "

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And then I knew he was gone. There was no light, no heavenly voices, nothing to inform me of his absence except the loss of his presence.

 

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For several months, I went back into that room, wrote him long letters. And while I always believed that somehow he got them, the sense of his presence never returned. To be honest, I don’t want it to. However much I miss him, I want even more to believe he was real. If he returned, I knew it would mean the whole thing had been in my head.