They say, "You talk to yourself a lot, and I laugh. Because they don't know it's not myself I'm talking to. It's the people I miss, the ones I can't reach anymore. In my head, they still listen, still care, still stay. I replay old conversations and make up new ones, just to feel close for a while. It's pathetic, maybe, but it's the only place where they don't leave. In those quiet moments, I get to say everything I never could, hear everything I wish they'd said. It's not real, I know that. But sometimes imaginary love feels safer than the real kind. At least it doesn't walk away.