I felt her presence behind me, like a cold chill that just happened to go down your spine. I knew she was always lingering behind me and that no matter where I went; she’d be there. Sitting down at my desk, situated next to the window, I could see her. Waiting for a friend, she’d be there. It was as if she was playing a game with me; Hide and Seek, if I could recall, was her favourite game. I always seemed to be the one finding her though it wasn’t that hard; she’d be right under my nose. When I tried to hide, I always lost. Why? Because she’d be right where I’d be, tagging beside me. She was like a little child; a child with their hand clutched just above the hem of their mother’s skirt, never letting go. I would have preferred to be annoyed by a child than to live with her.

And yet, I could never let her go.

I needed her.

She was the one who kept me grounded; I would be lost for eternity in the clouds without her, trapped in a void where no one could hear me scream. A world where darkness would take over and there was no such thing as justice, rationality; reality. That’s what she told me; it was the right way of life. No need for the imagination, no need to be free.

”You have to follow the rules.”

“The rules?” I asked her once, “I don’t understand.”

“With me holding you down, you don’t need to.”

But I never fully understood the rules; what were they? Mothers told their children the rules; teachers would tell students off if they broke the rules. What rule was I breaking? She never seemed to tell me throughout my life; I’d just see her get trampled by those passing by. As I witnessed this day after day, I finally thought to myself, why is this happening to her? What has she done?

I never got a reasonable answer in the end. Instead, she’d tell me theories of jealousy, rage or something spiritual; I didn’t believe any of it.

“They’re just mad that I’m helping you.”

“How can helping someone be a bad thing?” I asked. As my head moved from right to left, hoping for a plausible answer from her this time, she shook her head and spoke not a single word. As night decided to visit, my room lit a soft orange tone; not too bright, and yet not too dark. She liked the orange glow too; it always seemed to make her tower over me, not that she already did in the daytime. She hated being in the dark, and yet I felt more vulnerable when she was.

”When I’m in the dark, you can’t see me; I can’t let that happen.”

I always left the light on, to lessen her fears of the dark and she thanked me for that. She said I was special to her, and she was to me. I felt safe around her. I’d be floating around without her, with no idea of how to get back to solid ground. Ever since I was a small child, she was there, holding me up. When I laughed, she laughed; when I cried, she cried; and when I rebelled, she’d rebel too, but only as an exhibition of what I shouldn’t be. Had she never copied me, I would never have become aware of right and wrong, expectations, and the rules.

“My hands are cold,” I told her, walking towards the heater. From the corner of my eye, I could see her following me, and when I turned around, she’d stand erect, emotionless, like usual; I could never truly see what she was trying to tell me. Although, at this moment, I guessed, “come back to the desk; you have work to do” was what she wanted to say.

Work.

It seemed that every single day, I’d be working till dawn. Sitting in an office, typing out in a language I had no comprehension of -- the language of digits. I’d rather live as an artist, where numbers and rules weren’t the focal point, but the scaffolding and inspiration for imagination, support or challenge. Either way, I knew I had no choice, because she’d been watching over me for so long, she wouldn’t dare leave me all by myself.

The cicadas outside my window seemed to be quieter and less active than usual tonight, much like I was, slaving away. She was working with me, her hand moving in sync with mine. Our fingers over each others, creating a barrier; she urged me constantly to finish. She trapped my hand as I began to doodle at the corner of the page, telling me, “Stupid, don’t conform to that side. You will be in complete darkness if you do.”

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” I replied, “I swear. Honest to God.”

I saw her speak while I did, obviously trying to mock me, and up to now, it had been like that for my entire life; I just never noticed until now.

“No!” I yelled at her, “I’m sick of this! You hate it whenever I do anything remotely artistic!”

I feel like a robot; no emotion, unable to express what I want to be, regardless of what society wants. I want to be in the clouds; this darkness you speak of? You are wrong. Rationality, the rules - they aren’t what will give me salvation; they will be the death of me.

I slammed my hands onto the desk, and turned off the light.

And at that moment, she vanished.

Gone.

But I knew, no doubt, she’d be back; because she knew I couldn’t live without her.

No matter how much I hated it.