He never minded my knee-high mismatched socks, or my wild hair, until his mind was poisoned by the fanatics of prissy third graders. From then on  my socks matched and my hair was tamed, not because I cared what the other kids thought, but I sure cared what he thought. And I loved him. Now you may think love is a strong word, and it is, but I was made to love him.
I don't even remember when we were first introduced to each other. But the youngest I remember him being, was around three years old. He was a waddling toddler with fiery red hair and a few freckles dotting the bridge of his nose. He was adorable, and I instantly knew  he was going to be a good kid, i’d make sure of it.
Hours of helping mom around the house and inventing board games and making homemade postcards soon faded into hours of texting his friends and ignoring his parents. Because being a mama’s boy was not the coolest thing that a sixth grade boy could be. No... but a dirtbiker was. For his twelfth birthday he received a bright green dirt bike after begging his parents for nearly a year. They finally gave in the first time he wrecked I was there, my left hand on his shoulder and my right wiping his tears away. Those were the days when I was the most vibrant. Neon yellows, and blue and pinks making up my complexion and outfits.
Abe was a good kid: he volunteered at the pet shelter on Wednesdays after school; watered old Ms. Collin’s dying flowers when the old woman went away to visit her children; he ate his vegetables and respected the adults in his life. I don't think he understood how proud of him I was. We would talk and play and sing nonsensical songs for hours. One of our favorites was a poem that solely revolved around Abe’s favorite foods. It was an anthem for mac and cheese and chocolate doughnuts. We sang it in the style of a sailor chanty sometimes, or possibly a lullaby other times.
...
In sixth grade Amanda Clemons came into the picture. She was the kind of girl who wore ripped jeans matched with grey Converse and a leather jacket. The kind of girl who blew big pink bubbles during math class. Abe spent an impressive amount of time fawning over her. I wasn't getting much attention at all anymore. When he was sitting at the dinner table his thoughts would drift and touch on the idea of her. His bored expression would become the crooked grin I have loved since I even started to obtain my memories.
I told him he needed to not fawn over her big brown eyes and her soft golden hair. I told him she won't like him if he acted so clingy and desperate. I told him not to try so hard, so he didn't, and my advice worked. They became friends and she would occasionally come over to Abe’s house to study. Sometimes I would stick around to maybe try and talk with Amanda and Abe, maybe become part of their group. But I was always ignored, disregarded. It was like I was invisible to her.
But the more I observed Amanda, I could see why he liked her: she smelled like apples and had a cute dimple on her left cheek. I suppose, but she seemed … basic, I guess, kind of generic in my opinion. But Abe rumbled with giggles when she said even the smallest joke. So much for being subtle.
In eighth grade Amanda fed him the idea - or maybe he constructed it himself - that she hated the color blue. My blue bandana became a horribly boring shade of earl, and my vibrant crystal eyes changed to a dull brown. I loved him, so it only made sense for me to change if that's what he would want. Soon Amanda had grown closer to my Abe. She put gel in his wild red hair one day after church and combed it into a swoosh. She tamed his curls and he loved it, because Amanda did. He styled his own hair in the same manner every morning from then on. I gave him confidence in the hair style, telling him it was hot, like the kind of hairstyle an actor in a movie would have. He liked that idea.
I probably shouldn’t have stoked his ego, but I liked making him feel confident and good about himself.
Now that I think about it, my whole life revolved around the boy. I went with him to school, was in almost all his classes. Watched him and his dopey friends skateboard at the park after school. I ate dinner with him, and helped him study. I couldn't stay away and I wouldn't. But he didnt see me as a great importance anymore. So I just faded into the background when his friends or Amanda were around. He only ever seemed to even notice I was there when he was completely alone, and working on homework or something else he didn't want to be doing. I missed when we used to spend hours together, riding rhinos through the scorching savanna and drinking hot chocolate as penny-sized snowflakes coated our coats and hair. That time was over . . . he was older now.
He still saw me as  a little girl with mismatched socks and wild brown curls. He didn't even realize that I matched my socks for him, covered my freckles for him, or styled my hair, for him. But hey, what’s a girl to do?
At the end of his eighth grade year a dance was coming up and he wanted so badly to ask Amanda, but he went all chicken every time he tried.  He just ended up sweating beads of molten glass and stuttering like a scared lap dog, it was pathetic. His farouche exterior was normally balanced by the storm in his eyes and the fire in his chest. But when I peeked into his heart and thoughts I found the fire smoldered. He was panicking, losing his cool, this was something he really wanted. The dance was two days away, and against my own judgement I decided I had to help him.
That night I sat on the floor. Holly, my pet giraffe (imagined by Abe when he was 9) was nestled in my lap as I stroked her soft, short fur. Abe sat feet away from me on his bed, his phone in hand staring at the screen. It was three in the morning and the blue light of the phone screen was the only light in the room. Again I peeked into his thoughts… She thinks I'm annoying . . . she won't like me . . . she won't talk to me . . . should I text her anyway?
Poor Abe.
“Text her,” I prompted, gently at first. “Text her!” More firmly the second time. He does, typing and deleting, typing and deleting, what seemed to me like a thousand times. Finally he manned up, and tapped the send icon. A reply was sent instantly, to Abe’s delight. A smile lit up his face and soon it spread to mine like a toxic infection.  And they were texting and I was no longer present in his thoughts.
It’s been happening more frequently now. His daydreaming thoughts rarely touched on me. Instead of spending time with me, he’d rather fill his thoughts with chocolate- eyed Amanda, or which baseball teams would be playing on TV tonight, or what his friend’s where doing in the moment. I felt starved for attention. He was growing up. My colors were dimming.
…
It’s Friday morning. Tonight is the dance. The only event  during the school year the principal allowed the students to have a date. It’s limited to seventh and eighth graders only and literally everyone in both grades were teeming with excitement for that night. Unless, of course, you are Abe. Sweaty palmed, darting eyed, Abe. He was nervous again. Abe isn't really the brave or dauntless type. If he plays with danger or chance, it’s normally based on an angry flare up or a touch of rebellious thought - sometimes courtesy of me. I was normally the one who gave him his creative, dangerous or good ideas. He couldn't do this on his own. He needed me for what turned out to be the last time.

He darted through the halls of school, avoiding his friends who would call him chicken and embarrass him. They all had “dates” or a girlfriend of some sort. And they were brave on their own. And I decided he need to be too. So I helped him. Amanda was standing next to her locker, loading her purple backpack with books. Abe stopped and thought about abandoning his grand plan. That's when I helped.
Coward, I whispered into his thoughts. All the sudden he locked up, stopping in the middle of the hallway. Seventh grades nudging into him, some shouting at him to move out of the way.
Ahhhhgg. His thoughts were just the muffled screams of children as Amanda turned, and saw Abe. Her sandy hair catching the light and shining.
“Oh, hi loser.” She punched his arm lightly. “Whats up?”
“Not . . . not much,” he stuttered.
Get on with it. I urged. Ask her, stupid!
“ I was wondering if you wanted to go the dance?”
“Only if you go with me.”
What does that even mean. I wonder aloud into Abe’s head. I guess she can be awkward too.
Abe kind of chuckles and blushes, looking at me and shrugging. I blush. Attention, he looked at me! I felt triumph. I didn't even notice when my colors start changing, the blues almost roiling like the ocean, because of the glance Abe gave me, then they changed, instantly, almost as if someone slid a sepia filter over me.
She slung her backpack over her shoulder and the two sweethearts started to the lunchroom, talking and giggling as they went. As Abe turned and walked away the light orange of my t-shirt changed to a light grey. Then the rest of my clothes, then my red hair started fading too. My last job had been completed.
…

Being an assigned imaginary friend was almost like being a guardian angel. At least I felt like one.
I was assigned to Abe when he was a fire-haired, little toddler with a huge head and chubby red cheeks. We played board games, and blew bubbles in chocolate milk. I sat with him on the floor in the corner, tears streaming down his face as he played with the door stopper: his first time out. I met his first dog, Comet the Husky. We rode the poor dog like a horse, but he loved us anyway, snoring on the end of the bed as Abe slept.
When Abe was older he made changes to my “character design”: tamed my hair into a slick ponytail, matched my socks, and calmed my color scheme. I didn't mind the changes.
Soon he was in sixth grade and that's when I started fading the most, specifically when he met Amanda and got new friends. 
Now that I am no longer there for him, lost into the dark void of forgotten memories, I am so relieved to know that a strong, vibrant girl named Amanda is watching out for him.

End of reports    
~ Milly Trek