I referred to her as a friend of mine. I spoke of her often, telling anecdotes of our time together, funny and insightful moments we shared. Particular topics would make me think of her, having me start my next sentence with “My friend..”. But I could never remember how we met, how this friendship came to be. Then one afternoon I returned home and sat at my dusty desk, feeling motivated to get back into writing that novel I’m always saying I’m going to publish, when I suddenly saw my friend. There she was, playing amongst the plot, narrating a fictional life. She was just a story. I had never met her; I made her.