The first thing that I could I remember was her name.
Lap-Sigh-Co-Ra.
It sounded vaguely of mysteries, trepidation, and wistfulness.
When I approached her about it, she told me it was spelled L-E-P-S-Y-C-H-O-R-A.
When I asked its meaning, she shrugged.
I went home that day with those four syllables dancing on the tip of my tongue.
-
“Who picked it?” I asked.
“What?”
“Your name.”
“Oh.” She paused to think about my question, scrunching up her face. She must’ve been thrown off guard. Nevertheless, she answered me a few seconds later.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll ask, okay?”
-
Lepsychora was one of those quieter girls in class, preferring to play with the rounded wooden blocks and the various other toys by herself. On the first day, her name had been the target of curiosity much like mine, but within a few days, the novelty of it all had worn off. Especially when the other six year olds decided that it was much harder to say and pronounce than “Mary Had A Little Lamb”.
I think she was relieved.
Even then, however, her name still fascinated me, so I approached her over and over again. I don’t know if it annoyed her, but at least she answered me.
-
Somewhere along the line, we started talking regularly. I guess it was because of my persistence-I approached her often and asked her questions, until one day she probably got fed up of me looking for her and went up to me first.
“I’ll be friends with you, and tell you everything, so stop asking.” I think she was annoyed, but I gladly accepted.
-
Her friends called her Lepsy, because those four syllables were apparently too many for them to handle.
Six years later, Lepsychora was a little more twelve years old. I still followed her around, and she still talked to me. Somehow, over the years, we’d become quite close and were similarly quite-close-friends. That was nice.
She mostly avoided me in school, which was fine and understandable, but when we went to her house after school, we could talk for hours.
At first, it was me who did all the talking.
“How are you?” I’d ask. “Is that a new toy?”
Somewhere around twelve years old, though, Lepsychora discovered that she quite liked talking and was now the instigator of most of our conversations.
“So,” she said, on most afternoons, “I found this new book.”
And because I couldn’t read, I’d ask, “What’s it about?”
From there, she’d sprout this beautiful grin that she had been trying to suppress, and spend the next half an hour or so excitedly telling me the quotes from chapter 14, page 108, line 22. She could go on and on forever, and you could listen forever and ever, because her voice had this pleasant lilt to it that made you feel content just by listening.
Sometimes we went out for movies together as well. Lepsychora had grown from a quiet and reserved girl to a girl that displayed her emotions freely, especially when watching moving images projected on film, for some reason.
She enjoyed movies, especially the ones that were adapted from her favourite books, so every few weeks or so she would drag me along with her to watch those.
“Okay,” she’d say, “This is the part where his brother dies in his arms, and he goes into shock.”
And even though she already knew the ending, she’d still cry along with the rest of the cinema.
“It’s still sad, no matter how many times you watch it,” she explained to me once.
“They’re not real, though, “ I replied. I felt a slight sting in my words when I said that, but she just smiled.
“I am, and I can feel for them.”
-
Two years later, Lepsychora had an obsession with hats.
She went by Lepsy permanently now, insisting that others call her that because she felt that her full name was too troublesome for others to say and spell. I still called her by all four syllables, though.
“It’s fine for you,” she said when I asked if I could.
“Really? Why?”
She shrugged and pulled her woolen cap (the latest addition to her fast growing collection) lower over her eyes. “I mean, if you want to, you can. No reason to not let you.”
Fourteen was also the year where she got her first boyfriend.
“Aren’t you a bit young?” I asked. I really didn’t know if I was concerned or just wanted to tease her. Maybe both.
“I am.” She said.
“What do you mean, you’re not too y- wait, what?”
“I’m too young.” She declared. “Maybe. But he’s not. He’s like, sixteen, and our average is fifteen, which is not too young, and therefore it is okay.”
“He’s fifteen and eight months, you said.”
“Close enough.”
We both giggled at that, and then started laughing. When it died down, I asked another question.
“Are you going to tell him about me?”
She bit her lip, her nervous habit whenever she was asked a question that she really did not feel like answering.
“No.” she decided. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Nope, it’s fine.” Because it was, really. I had expected that.
“Thank you.”
“No, really, it’s fine.”
“Yeah, maybe, but still. Thanks.”
Lepsychora was a really nice girl, but also kind of awkward, as most girls her age were. Except, you never knew it, because she said her awkward things confidently.
After that, she started going out with the guy, taking him out for movies with her and such.
Two weeks later, she never talked to him again.
“He didn’t cry!” was her reason.
“You remember this book?” she lifted a book and I nodded; a week ago she had been beside herself telling me that there was movie adaption coming out. “Well, I went to watch it with him – he’d read the book as well –and you know the scene where the girl dies? He was giggling! The jerk! He even said, and I quote, ‘it was kinda sad the first time, but now don’t you think it’s a bit egregious?’. So I got rid of his stupid unfeeling ass.”
At that point in time, I had already started laughing. Lepsychora had grown up into an excellent person indeed.
“Lap-Sigh-Co-Ra,” I said, in between bursts of laughter, “You can’t just dump a person just because they don’t cry like you at a scene that you think is sad.”
“I can, and I just did.”
About a month later, she found another person to be in a relationship with that had appropriate reactions to movies and similarly enjoyed accessories that were to be worn on the head.
Lepsychora was my favourite person.
-
Thinking back, Lepsychora and I had been drifting further and further away. I mean, we actually did talk to each other more when she was twelve than when she was six, but even then, I think that we both felt that we didn’t really fit each other so well anymore. That we didn’t really connect as much.
Well, that’s not exactly it, but it’s really hard to explain.
It’s like, when she was younger, she was less embarrassed to talk to me, I guess? Yes, that’s it-I remember back then, she freely talked to me, whenever, wherever, but now, it was mostly when we were alone.
But even still, I think that our relationship lasted long than most, so as long as it was still there, it was okay.
-
Then, two years later, she was sixteen, enjoyed hats and books even more, and had more friends.
It was also the year where we parted.
“I’m too old for you,” she insisted.
-
I think my mistake was that I approached her first, unlike everyone else, because they waited for a child to talk to them.
-
I didn’t even have a response for her. Somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten that we’d probably have to separate, and so just went everyday without ever worrying.
“You’re not real,” she continued.
“But you are,” I said, softly.
“This isn’t a movie.”
She was right, of course, and to her I was the imaginary friend, but to me I was an actual person.
So it hurt.
-
Us ‘imaginary friends’, or as we are called, I guess, are basically assigned to children, and we wait for them to acknowledge us. Then after that, after our existence is denied, we are assigned to someone else.
I’d forgotten that.
So I just whispered to her, “I won’t forget you, Lepsychora,” (which she didn’t hear, of course) and went to find out who I was assigned to next.
-
The first thing I could remember was that there was a boy called Christopher, who had a most beautiful smile.
-
THE END